Hummingbird
by TheObsidianQuill
Summary: After months of sharing his dreams with a young Tom Riddle, things take a sharp left turn at the Battle of Hogwarts. Unexpectedly, while on the run, Harry walks through a gateway into another reality with prospering Empires, dangerous magical races, and the very man who unknowingly gave Harry back his will to live. (Tom/Harry) Mpreg/Fantasy-AU/World Jumping.
1. Flight of the Raven

Clouds of dust clogged the air, rubble littered the cobblestone, and the morning light filtered through a haze of fear and drab overcast. The air sang with the hissing flashes of spells, all of variant origin and lethality as they flew past his running body, which was leaping over the larger rubble and brickwork that cluttered the rain-slick-stone, underneath what used to be Diagon Alley. Powerful spells struck vacant shops to his left and right, causing them to crumple like card houses as he sprinted through the war zone. Trying to gain just enough headway to be out of sight, so that he could slip into one of the buildings and hide for a minute because he knew he wouldn't last much longer.

He could feel the sizzle of curses shooting past him like tiny falling stars. He heard the devastation they wrought when they made contact, narrowly missing him. His eyes burned with the dust and smoke that slipped under his dirty, cracked spectacles and created a film over his vision. He was inhaling enough smoke to make his chest tight and contract his airways painfully, it felt like he was breathing out more ash and smoke than he was breathing in. His body was numb with adrenaline and the only sensation that seemed to permeate it, was the pain and protests of his body.

Harry veered sharply to the left and practically flew down the narrow and winding paths that made up Knockturn Alley. The devastation here was less drastic, but not by much, as the dangerous and darker market place had long since been scourged by Aurors and torn apart in the new regime of the Light.

Finally seeing his chance, Harry climbed through a shattered display window and didn't stop until he was crouched behind the counter deeper in the shop and out of sight. The gutted shop still striped with scorch marks from the spells that must have been flung about here. He could hear spells still being cast and the ominous thudding of footsteps on the cobbles just outside the shop where he hid, but nobody passed the glass-littered threshold.

Harry's breathing was labored from the exertion of being chased up and down the abandoned wizarding market, but he forced it to be as quite as possible. His body was tense, lips trembling in pure, visceral terror. If he wasn't holding himself so rigidly, he knew he would be shaking like a leaf where he crouched. His wand was gripped so tightly in his sweaty palm that it might have either snapped or been permanently warped—it was already damaged enough in the earlier fight—if he ever made it out of there alive.

 _'When,'_ he fiercely corrected himself, ' _not_ _'if'_ , but _when_ he made it out alive,' because the other scenario just wasn't an option.

The scent of smoke, rain, and brick dust burned the inside of his nose and dried out his airways, eliciting the urge to cough, but he forced the need down out of necessity. It would be so much easier if Harry could just _disapparate_ but the in-laid wards throughout the alley prevented it to protect against thieves and spontaneous attacks. Though there were _apparation_ spots at different ends of the alley, he had no doubt that they were currently being guarded, or at least there were too many between him and those spots. He was sure that all exits and floos had been shut down as well.

On top of it all, Harry's wand was cracked along its wooden length. He could still cast a few shields and a defensive spell or two, but even if he made it to the _dissapparition_ point, he knew his wand would be done for once he _apparated_. There was the Elder wand in his bottomless bag, but he'd lost that somewhere in the alley during the scuffle. Essentially, _he was trapped._

Though, he was quickly running out of options and means of escape. Something would have to give, and he would have to take a risk before it was too late.

The market had even been evacuated by Aurors before he'd arrived nearly twenty minutes ago. Under the impression that he was going to meet someone called ' _The_ _Ferryman'_ who was supposed to get Harry out of the country discretely and set him up somewhere far away with a new identity.

As to _why_ he was being hunted like a dog in the streets and needed to get out of Britain so badly? Well, it was a bit complicated. . .

It started before the war had even ended, during his time horcrux-hunting with Ron and Hermione after their sixth year. Harry had stopped receiving visions from Voldemort at some point and at first, he thought that perhaps Snape's _occlumency_ lessons had been of some use after all and he was finally starting to get the hang of it. That was when the dreams started.

In the beginning, they were quick barely-there flashes that disappeared into nothing the moment he awoke, just a timbre of a voice echoing in his ears or the nebulous sensation of breath on his neck. He thought nothing of it, until they began to solidify and grow stronger each night. The soft brush of cool fingertips against his cheek, the warmth pooling in his gut, the vague impression of warm bedding around him that wasn't his own and the strong frame of another form at his back.

Instinctively, he knew what it was and that if he continued to allow it, it would change things irrevocably for him. But without anyone else to know, anyone else to witness what was happening and try to convince that his actions were unwise, Harry allowed his honest desires to slip away from him and gave his unspoken permission for . . . _more._ The brief touches turned intimate and some of his nights were consumed by shared breath, desperate hands, and phantom blazes between the two.

He took comfort in it and hid the truth from his two long-time friends, who he knew wouldn't understand.

Dumbledore had told him before that a bit of Voldemort's magic had disconnected and founds its home inside Harry. It was why he could sometimes see through Voldemort's eyes, why they were inexplicably connected. He hadn't known at the time that it was really a Horcrux living inside him, but even then, he understood what it would mean if he ever told Hermione and Ron. They would think he was being possessed again. Turn against him, treat him as a spy—as unwilling of a spy he may be.

However, Harry also knew that Voldemort didn't know of these dreams. The handsome young man in his dreams was . . . _different._ He never uttered Harry's name, and there was no recognition in his eyes when they met at night in the privacy of his own mind. Something in him told him that it was _Tom Riddle_ and not _Voldemort_ he was with. A distinction he felt only _he_ would make at that point in time.

Which is why, when the war inevitably found its way to Hogwarts, Harry felt minimal qualms fighting Voldemort. Because he knew it wasn't _him._ He wasn't entirely sure what it was, but the necrotic, festering wizard he faced was without a doubt unaware of Harry's dreams and he certainly wasn't the source. Harry held no love for the person who visited his dreams. However, he had found bountiful comfort there and there was a bond of some sort—perhaps even a friendship.

And so, when it came time to finally face Voldemort, to start doling out lethal curses, Harry . . . he just _couldn't._ Somewhere along the way, he'd lost his surety in what he was fighting for and even though Voldemort was vile and insane and resembled nothing of the soft hands and heavy gazes he'd grown so familiar with, he still couldn't bring himself to do it. He wanted to leave right then, just walk off of the battle field and let the pieces fall where they may. But then he discovered the Horcrux inside of him and realized that he would never be able to walk away. Not really.

Voldemort offered him an ultimatum and it became fairly easy after that. Most thought he'd done what he had out of bravery—sacrificing himself when Voldemort threatened to slay everyone Harry knew—but it wasn't. He didn't do it for them. He was tired. He didn't have anything to fight for anymore. The dreams had stopped months ago and he didn't feel like fighting any longer. So, he went to die. Simple as that.

 _Except . . . nothing's ever that simple_.

It wasn't until Harry faced his end in the forbidden forest and appeared in the blindingly-white Kings Cross Station that he finally encountered what had been the cause of the dreams. He remembered very little about the encounter, but he could still bring up flashes of dark blue almond-shaped eyes, alabaster skin, and soft red lips that tasted like honey. The only thing he remembered with clarity, was Tom's parting message. Tom spoke of a gift he had for Harry, a gift that Harry _had_ to protect. He told him that he _must survive_ and _protect his gift._ He told Harry to kill Voldemort, that it was okay and that the last of Voldemort's soul needed to be put to rest.

For the first time in almost a year, Harry had a purpose. One that he _wanted_ to pursue. Protect Tom's gift, whatever it might be. That he could do.

It was the last time he encountered the pieced-together soul of the man who had long-since been fated to leave this world.

When he awoke, he pretended to have been killed and when the time was right, he faced Voldemort one last time. Not for revenge, or to save the hordes of people at his back who were stained in other people's blood. He did it to fulfil his promise to his friend and put a tortured and mutilated soul at peace.

The war was won, people collected their dead, grieved, rebuilt. Harry felt the loss of his phantom companion and the weight of the war left him too tired to maintain pretenses or the relationships he'd held onto for so long. He retreated into himself and hid away from the public.

He thought he just needed time to get out of his funk, recuperate, heal, and he'd be able to see his friends again without feeling tense and nauseous. They didn't understand though, because everything they'd been through had only made the couple closer and stronger together and they thought that that was what Harry needed, so they prodded and probed and showed up at Grimmauld Place without warning to try and drag him out for more light-hearted activities.

The first time they had succeeded in that, he woke up the next morning with his haggard appearance plastered all over the front page of the Prophet, spouting out a bunch of nonsense about him being ill or having been permanently injured somehow in the war. People sent him letters of condolences and referred him to specialized healers they knew that worked in everything from dragon pox to lost limbs to _cancer._ People took one look at him and thought he was _dying!_

 _For_ _Merlin's_ _sake_ , it had only been two weeks since the war had ended! Were people really _that_ desperate to move on and forget that they resorted to acting as if nothing was wrong before the dirt had even settled over the graves of the dead? He needed time, how could no one understand that?

However, when Harry took a good hard look at himself in the mirror, he realized it wasn't as batty an assumption as he'd hopped. He had shit to sort through, _yes,_ but it wasn't just a mental thing—he _really did look ill!_ Then, about three weeks after the war had ended, Harry's health took a turn for the worst. Every day he spent hours feeling so nauseous he could barely get out of bed and had to depend on Kreacher to get him his meals.

After several days of no change, he finally told Ron and Hermione about his health and they immediately got him a home visit from a healer. It had been the first time he'd talked to his friends in over a week, an olive branch in hopes that they could begin to repair things. Looking back, he really wished he'd dealt with it on his own.

After only a short fifteen-minute physical and consultation, Harry's world was blown apart and yet at once compacted down into something so incredibly small. He hadn't known it was possible for him to be able to . . . _conceive._ It wasn't _supposed_ to be possible without a multitude of potions and spells— _all incredibly dark in nature, according to a blanched-faced-Ron—_ to prepare for such a thing to be an option. And in the span of only a minute, while the healer none-too-subtly probed him with questions about who could possibly be the other father to the tiny and incredible human life growing inside of him, he knew that the _how_ wasn't really important anymore because he knew without a shadow of a doubt that _this_ was the gift the Tom Riddle's soul had spoken of and given him.

Harry sent the healer away and after days of his friends pushing him for answers, promising him they could be trusted and that they'd support him no matter what—the tenseness in their voice and expressions certainly told otherwise—Harry gave in and confessed to everything. He didn't realize until later that three tasteless, odorless drops of _Veritaserum_ had been added to his tea to loosen his lips. Harry had forced the couple to leave and over the following couple of weeks, Harry grew more and more jumpy and anxious as he received absolutely no word from Ron or Hermione and every time he dared to leave his house, he swore he saw people following him from the edges of his vision. Harry changed his wards around Grimmauld Place to keep out everyone but himself.

Every few days, a notice from St. Mungo's would appear amongst his post, stating something vague about there being an issue with his health and requesting he come in for further examination. Harry ignored them, the letters being far too ambiguous and something ominous roiling in his gut that told him to stay far away. After the third ignored St. Mungo's letter, Harry began getting notices from the Ministry as well, just as vague but even more dangerous it seemed. A few from Ron and Hermione telling him to visit them, that they wanted to make up for what they did, had him piecing together exactly what his friends had done after their discovery.

When Harry didn't respond to those either, the messages in them changed to urging Harry to ' _do the right thing'_ and get rid of what was growing inside of him—never referring to it as an actual baby. Harry, knowing that he didn't have long until things turned truly dangerous for both him and his child, started searching desperately for a way out of the mess that didn't involve giving up his only real chance at a family, and also throwing away the gift his secret friend had left with him to protect. Soon enough, the media started publishing stories about him to paint him as a dark wizard who would be toxic to their community if something wasn't done, he knew he had no choice but to leave, and _fast._

Harry barely had a moment to revel in the oddity and fascination of the prospect of the life growing inside of him—not yet visible on his flat stomach—before he had set a meeting with " _The_ _Ferryman"_ and got himself mixed up in his whole mess. The alley had been empty when he arrived and before he could run the other way, a mix of Aurors and former Order members were at his back, throwing deadly spells and pushing him further into the alley.

They weren't there to apprehend him, they were there to kill him and—more importantly—the potentially dark wizard (some even believed he was carrying the reincarnation of the Dark Lord himself in his belly) growing inside of him. He wouldn't let that happen, though.

Harry came back to himself as he heard the sounds of people cease their spell casting and instead shouting out instructions to search the area. Harry's heart pounded painfully in his chest and his breathing was so ragged it felt like he'd never truly catch his breath again. His body ached from the exertion from running and hitting his shins on fallen carts and debris, as well as continuously throwing up spells and shields as he went, through his damaged and unreliable wand. His head throbbed from a large gash over his temple that had bled profusely down the side of his face, matting in his curly black hair and eyebrow, and made the side of his face and neck feel stiff and tacky from the viscous scarlet liquid that had dried there.

He was in a bad way and knew he wouldn't be able to keep up a fight for much longer. With a deep breath, Harry gently pressed his free hand to the flat, but firm expanse of flesh under his shirt and _willed_ the baby to be okay, to hang in there just a little while longer. It was too early for a bit of running and maybe a bump or two to effect the little one just yet, but what he'd been doing couldn't have been good for his child.

After everything that had happened, finding out about the life he was carrying deep within him, Harry's entire world had shrunken down to this tiny, defenseless little light and he knew he never had and never _will_ feel such an overwhelming need to protect something or someone as much as his child. It was so different from just protecting his friends; the difference being, Harry had been willing to die for his friends, but for this baby he was willing to _kill_. His morals, his pride, his sense of self-worth meant nothing in the face of his baby's safety.

Regaining a modicum of composure, Harry focused on the situation at hand once more and knew he had to move. Those people outside that he had once considered friends and comrades, they were relentless in their need to eradicate anything and everything to do with dark magic and Voldemort, knowing that Harry was carrying what could technically be considered his child? It meant that Harry and his baby had to be killed at whatever cost and they would search every single inch of Diagon Alley until they found him. He wasn't that well-hidden, either.

He was trapped, unable to _disapparate_ , and surround on all sides. His only option was to aim for one of the _apparation_ spots and run like hell. Casting both a silencing spell on his feet and a disillusionment spell on himself, Harry slowly moved around the side of the counter, keeping a keen ear out for the sounds of the witches and wizards running about around him. With all the smoke and dust clouding the air, Harry's partially disguised form wouldn't be very hard to spot, unlike if he had his invisibility cloak on him, so he would just have to make a break for it.

Harry climbed back out of the open window as quietly as he could, but the silencing spell only worked on what his feet came in contact with, so where the shards of glass were more concentrated and layered, the telling _crunch_ could still be heard. In the street—not some three meters away—stood Ron, flanked by half a dozen Aurors as he scanned his surroundings with a sharp gaze, wand in hand and ready.

Once Ron turned towards where Harry was, he didn't waste another moment, knowing he was about to be spotted, and dropped into a dead sprint in the opposite direction. Almost immediately he heard unintelligible shouts and the spells were once again being shot at him full force. Harry knew the disillusionment spell would make him a harder target to hit, so he spent less precious time with shields and more energy just trying to get to the closest _apparation_ point that he knew of.

That had been his mistake.

A powerful _diffindo_ tore through the side of his calve and Harry nearly collapsed, but he was thrumming with adrenaline and some foreign instinct that had him desperately pushing onwards, even as the leg of his trousers soaked through with steadily blooming crimson. The next _diffindo_ sliced through his shoulder and the pain made his cry out, but he didn't slow, _he_ _couldn't slow._

His vision started to blur and his limbs tingled strangely as his head swam and he didn't know if it was the adrenaline, shock, or blood loss since he hadn't a moment to spare to figure out how badly he was injured. And then his body started to turn against him, slowing down on its own accord, stumbling more. Harry wanted to weep because he was _so_ _close_ but he knew he wouldn't make it and it fractured something inside of him to realize this but he pushed with everything he had and cried out desperately.

With all the desperation of a new parent about to lose _everything,_ Harry leapt forward, hardly feeling the tickle of wards sweeping over him. Harry was already spinning on the ball of his foot before he properly landed and only caught the furious, red-faced visage of his former friend before his world was compressed down tightly. He felt like he was being dragged through a keyhole by a fishhook behind his navel until he was spat out again and landed heavily on his back, knocking the air from his lungs.

The first, weakened thought to filter through his head was, _'at least it wasn't my stomach.'_ He would have laughed at how strange a thought like that would have been just two months ago. Though, the pain lancing through his body and the panic still raking its claws over his brain certainly weren't a laughing matter.

He didn't know what his panicked mind had chosen as a destination for his _appariton,_ so first things first, he needed to figure out where he was. Sitting up, Harry looked around and realized he was on the ground in a dense, remote, and _towering_ forest. It wasn't the forbidden forest around Hogwarts, but it looked old and just as untouched by humans.

Harry felt something crumble in his hand and looked down to find the wand he'd been using was now no more than ash. For many reasons, he _needed_ a wand, but one good thing to come out of his wand essentially turning to dust was that there was now no way for anyone to track him. Any magical trace from his _apparition_ would dissipate immediately without the anchor of his wand anymore. Which meant that for a while at least, he was completely untraceable.

 _Unfortunately,_ Harry thought as he carefully pushed himself up off the ground and took catalog of his situation, _he was wandless_ (pretty much without magic, since wandless magic in his state might push him towards magical exhaustion and would only do more harm to him and his baby than good) _he was also injured, in the middle of nowhere, and had all of Wizarding England out for his head._

 _"Shite."_ He croaked.

With what had happened earlier, he had no doubt that if he so much as showed his face in public— _muggle or otherwise_ —he would be caught and killed on the spot.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, for now at least, staying in the woods was probably the safest place for him. Who knew how long it would take him to find civilization again, he didn't know where he was and staying in one place seemed like a sure way to get himself caught. So, he needed to move, but being in the woods for now, probably improved his chances of living to fulfil his promise and meet his own child. Which was all he wanted.

With an uneasy flip in his gut, Harry picked a direction and began walking, needing to put distance between him and where he'd _apparated_ before he could look over his injuries and try to treat them a bit.

* * *

He carefully sank to the ground, back leaning against a fallen log. There was enough foliage and trees around him that someone would have to almost be on top of him to know he was there. He'd been walking for over a hour and the thick forest around had not yet given any signs of ending. If it weren't for the known limitations of _apparition_ he would suspect he wasn't even in England anymore.

Finally feeling far enough away to rest and assess his wounds, Harry had found a hidden spot to do just that. Tentatively, he grabbed the hem of his jeans leg and began pulling it up. When he reached the gash from the _diffindo_ earlier, he was careful not to disturb any scabbing too much. The wound wasn't very deep and had already stopped bleeding, it was clotting just fine. His trousers had also prevented it from getting dirty.

Harry pulled his cloak out of his magically expanded pocket and with a bit of struggling and the help of a pocket knife he started carrying around to reassure himself he could defend himself against wizards and muggles alike, managed to tear off just the bottom corner. After all, he knew he would need it later to be as intact as possible when the sun set and the muggy summer heat of day gave way to frigid nights. Placing the square of clean fabric over the gash, he slowly rolled his trousers back down over it to hold it in place—the material being just tight enough to do so. If he was careful, it would probably heal up in a week without too big a risk of infection.

It would be so much easier if Harry had a wand or could even attempt a wandless healing spell. Though, healing spells were complex and trying them without a wand in _any_ condition would rocket him towards magical exhaustion immediately. No, best he use magic as sparingly as possible and only keep it to very simple spells.

Sighing, Harry moved on to the most worrying wound. The slice over his shoulder. Even now, he could feel that it was deeper then the one on his leg. Combined with the fact that it was in a harder to reach place and he knew it would be a bitch to take care of. Harry carefully pulled his long-sleeve shirt off, bunching up a clean patch of fabric to place in his mouth before pointing his index finger at the wound over his shoulder and shooting a jet of water from a weak _aguamenti_ spell. Grunting into the material clenched between his teeth, Harry eventually ended the spell and lowered his hand, dropping it to his lap and panting lightly at the edgings of exertion.

He knew that would be the extent of what he could do wandlessly until he had some rest and maybe something to eat. With the reminder of food, Harry knew that, until he was able to find his way out of the woods, his survival skills would be put to the test. He couldn't give up just yet, he needed to protect his child.

Harry lightly pressed his hands to his flat stomach, taking a modicum of comfort and reassurance in the gesture that he had been doing more and more each day since discovering what lay beneath. Perhaps it would be a lot more effective once it began to grow and there was something tangible to _feel_ instead of just _knowing_ what was there. With a heavy exhale, he stuttered back into motion and cut a longer strip from the hem of his cloak and gingerly wrapped it around the wound before tying the ends together so it would stay in place. Pulling his shirt back on and shoving his cloak into his expanded pocket, Harry pushed up off the forest floor and was once again on the move.

His pace was slow, stilted, with a slight limp when the pain of the gash on his leg got to be too much, but he tried not to stop frequently. It didn't look like he would be making it out of the woods by night fall and so he needed to find a suitable place to rest for the evening.

Unlike his time spent horcrux-hunting, Harry was alone, almost completely without magic, with no simple source of food and no magical tent to keep him warm and safe at night. In his current situation, Harry could only hope to find some place dry, out of sight, and out of reach from most animals. The further he walked and the more he looked, though, the more it seemed like he would have to settle for curing up between the thick roots of an enormous tree and pray it didn't rain. More than once, Harry went digging through his pockets, wishing that he had been mistaken and _hadn't_ dropped his bag in the commotion, however, all he had on him was his cloak, his pocket knife, and a now useless pouch of galleons.

It was _hot_ too, the humid air settled down on his shoulders heavily and every inhale was so thick with moisture it felt like he might drown if he breathed too deeply. Harry reached the top of a rocky, steep incline and wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes. His shirt was damp with perspiration, his silky onyx curls sticking to his neck and forehead. His feet were aching something fierce and he could feel the beginning of blisters on the backs of he heels were his shoes had been rubbing against them for hours.

He decided to take a short break at the top of the incline, leaning back against a large boulder to catch his breath and cool himself down for a minute before he could continue. Another weak _aguamenti_ gave him a stream of fresh, clean water to drink from. He couldn't hold the spell for long, but Harry knew he shouldn't rely too much on what was around him—berries, plants, small bodies of still water—as he didn't know what might be poisonous, inedible, or riddled with harmful bacteria and disease. The safest route was to only drink his own water and try to hunt some animal if he could. He was hungry, but he knew he didn't have the time or energy to sort out how he might manage _that_ just yet. First, he needed shelter.

Harry was getting ready to start walking again when he paused, hearing something far in the distance. It took a bit of straining to figure out what the static-like sound coming through the trees was, but he perked up when he realized he was hearing the sound of moving water. It was also in the direction he was already headed, so Harry just kept going straight.

Several minutes later, he found himself standing on the bank of a wide, but shallow, and slowly drifting river. The water looked clean and clear. If harry hadn't strictly decided to stick to _aguamenti_ to drink from, he would have surely been tempted to drink from the river. Pale green eyes scanned up and down the river. Considering his options.

The river cut off the path he'd originally been taking, but it wasn't like he knew specifically where he was going. Besides, he couldn't cross the river here without getting his leg wet—as the water at the center of the river was at least waist-deep—which could set back his heeling. He also would have to cross barefoot since he didn't want to get his shoes wet, as he didn't want to get any sort of infection like gangrene out here and end up losing his toes. So crossing the river was out—for now—but it might be a good idea to follow it down stream. He would have a better way of keeping track of his path, although he won't be drinking from it, it might be good to have the river to cool down or wash up in—both his shirt and pants were becoming stiff with drying blood from his wounds. Plus, if he had any hopes of catching animals for food later on, sticking close to the river made that much easier, as all animals would need water eventually.

With his decision made, Harry began walking down the river bank alongside the river, stopping occasionally to scoop up some cool water to splash on the back of his neck, mindful of his make-shift bandage so as not to get it wet.

As the sun slowly shifted from its highest, hottest point in the sky to gradually sink towards the western horizon, Harry felt like perhaps things were looking up for him in the smallest ways as he found himself a suitable place to settle in for the night. Which came in the form of a cave.

It wasn't very deep, more like a pocket taken out of the side of a cliff than an actual cave, but it wasn't occupied by any animals, it had a roof to protect him from any rain, it was also tucked behind a thick grove of trees and huge boulders, so even if he started up a fire, he wouldn't be seen. Harry spent the rest of his afternoon before the sun disappeared completely, gathering wood—as dry of wood as he could manage in the climate—and even managed to find a bush of familiar berries among the trees. The lower branches were picked clean by animals, but the topmost branches still held quite a few of the maroon and dark-purple-colored berries left.

Boysenberries, nearly twice as big as raspberries, Harry recognized them immediately, as there had been a bush of them in the Dursley's back yard he always used to eat from secretly when he was especially hungry. It wouldn't be much and he certainly couldn't be sustained by them for long, but after a day of filling himself up on only water, the berries were more than appreciated.

Once back at the cave, he set up a ring of stones to contain his fire and started arranging the sticks he had gathered into a cone shape with some looser wood-fiber he had scraped away from a dead tree for kindling at the center of the cone. Setting aside a pile of other wood he would need to keep the fire going, Harry crouched down next to his wood and kindling. After that, all it took was the snap of his fingers for a few sparks to set the kindling alight, a bit of tending from Harry to get the blaze going and he had himself a fire. He could thank his bleak childhood in the muggle world for this achievement. There was a fireplace in the Dursley's living room and of course none of them were willing to crouch down and risk getting smudged with soot and ash every time they felt a chill.

With that, Harry ate his berries, drank some more water, pulled on his cloak as the night leeched the warmth from the forest, and settled in until morning. It took a while, but eventually exhaustion took over and he was able to fall asleep on the hard, unyielding ground, his legs pulled up to curl protectively over his stomach. His dreams sought to fixate on what he had refused to think about in the light of day. Twisting memories of bushy light brown curls and flaming orange locks into disgusted gazes and shouted spells meant to slice him from navel to breastbone. The betrayal of his friends haunted his dreams, where he once found such comfort. Now, his comfort—his _hope_ —was in his waking hours, curled up tightly and so very small behind the protective walls of his body.


	2. Violet-Backed Starling

Harry gave a frustrated sigh as he opened his last trap and found only a small squirrel. He had two other traps, but those had been empty when he checked and he had been seriously hoping for something a bit bigger, like a rabbit.

It had been a week since the wilderness had become a safer place for the expecting wizard than civilization. Harry had spent several days at the cave he'd found, recuperating and doing his best to heal and take care of his wounds. He had been able to catch a few small animals in make-shift traps—which he had surprisingly learned from Dudley. The sadistic little sod used to set up traps in their neighborhood to catch stray cats or rabbits or any other poor creature that wandered into his traps before tormenting them with his gang of friends.

It had been horrible what he would do to those animals—shoving sharp sticks into the cage-like trap until they stopped moving or kicking it like a bloody football while cackling at the terrified and pained shrieks of the creature inside. Dudley knew that he hated it so he made it his duty to always force Harry to watch, his friends holding him still while Dudley put on a little show that had made Harry vomit on more than one occasion. It wasn't a pleasant batch of memories for him, but it had given him enough information to build a few rudimentary traps of his own. It also steeled his stomach when he actually caught an animal and had to kill them quickly and hopefully without much pain. Once the animal was dead, preparing the meat became rather easy and guiltless.

The cooked meat had been worlds different from the handful of berries he had consumed the first night. After feeling how quickly his strength returned after that, he had no more qualms with hunting for his food. After all, he knew that it was best for the growth of his child to eat regularly and so there wasn't anything he wouldn't do to ensure the health of his child.

It had been a good set up, but after a while, he knew he had to get moving again. There weren't many animals in the area he had made camp in and he couldn't stay in the woods forever, he needed to keep moving.

The night after leaving, he hadn't found a great place to sleep, so he ended up just making camp between the trees. Two days later, he found a rocky overhang near the river and set up there for a while.

Which is where he's been staying since.

He would eventually have to leave his wooded asylum, but he wasn't in a huge rush to leave yet. He knew that the Order and Ministry would be hunting him down. They made it very clear at Diagon Alley that they wanted him dead. Sides had been chosen, lines have been drawn, and Harry was now and probably always will be Enemy #1 for them. He's a wanted fugitive now.

His best shot was to lay low, keep hidden until he can discretely leave England and probably find refuge on the continent. His fame might not have been solely contained within Britain, but outside of England there were still maybe people who didn't know his face and had forgotten his name. Voldemort had wreaked havoc in England, but he had not spread to continental Europe the way Grindlewald had, and so many countries hadn't been very invested in their war. It meant that Harry would have anonymity and wouldn't forever be kept from the world of magic once he left his home country.

Harry sighed and brought his catch back to the river to be prepared and cleaned before he cooked it. There was now only a slight limp to his gait. The gash on his calf had scabbed over and closed up nicely. It still smarted every now and then, a bit of muscle weakness and bruising, but it hadn't gotten infected and he could walk pretty far on it before needing a break. He'd probably have a scar, but he certainly was no stranger to scars.

The wound on his shoulder, however . . . now that was a different story. Just as he had predicted, it was a lot harder to tend to. He cleaned it each morning and night, making sure to clean off the bandage as well as often as he could. Unfortunately, the wound kept opening up when he moved the wrong way and it was taking much longer to heal because of it. Harry had even tried to heal it just a little bit with some magic, but he had barely started when he felt the warning pressure of exhaustion on the edges of his mind and stopped immediately before he hurt himself.

After a few days, the wound became inflamed despite his best efforts and he knew it would turn into a pretty bad infection if he wasn't careful. Though, in a turn of luck, Harry somehow came across a plant while looking for a place to set up his next trap and was surprised to realize he recognized it from his Hogwarts years.

It had narrow green leaves and little pale purple flowers along its stem. Mentha Arvensis. Better known as 'wild mint.' It wasn't magical or anything, but it was used a lot in potions—especially healing potions—as it was a very strong anti-inflammatory. Putting just a little bit on his bandages before tying them on again actually helped quite a lot. Also, chewing on the leaves every once in a while, helped to keep the effects constant.

The progress of his injuries wasn't the only development though. He hadn't a lot to eat every day, and yet, there was still the slightest swell below his belly-button. Harry really wished he wasn't stuck in such dangerous circumstances so he could properly revel in the tiniest bump of proof of his precious child's growth. Though, it had spurred him into setting up more traps, trying to provide as much nutrients as possible, as well as resting a hand over his stomach whenever it wasn't occupied. Harry even spent a few hours standing in the river, knee-deep with his trousers rolled up and a long stick he had sharpened into a spear in an attempt to catch some fish as well. He didn't catch a single fish that first day, but after a while he got the feel of it and managed to cook up something other than squirrel or the rare rabbit when he was lucky.

When he eventually did move on, he stuck with his plan of following the river. The further downstream he traveled, the calmer and shallower the waters became. Eventually, Harry was able to cross without fear of the current upsetting his footing or the waters going too deep.

Harry crossed over and it was a good thing he did since not long after that, the river was joined by another, more violent one and the rest was a wild churn of rapids and sharp drops from jagged stone. The river also seemed to curve off to the left, bringing it back closer to the way he came from and Harry knew it was time to leave the river behind. He stayed near the water's edge for a few more nights before setting out in another direction. From keeping note of where the sun rose and set, he knew he was loosely heading South-East. That didn't do much in telling him where he was headed, but it did make sure he wasn't walking in circles.

Harry had yet to see more than smaller animals and a few groups of deer—which were obviously too large for him to hunt as he mostly relied on traps. He hadn't been too worried about encountering larger and more dangerous animals, seeing as pretty much every large natural predator in England had been hunted to extinction more than a century ago.

Thankfully, the biggest threat Harry would face out there were people—who seemed to have never stepped foot on this land—and the elements, which he was handling with at least mild efficiency.

Though, now that he thought about it, this forest might actually be warded against muggles. There were large chunks of land and towns that had been totally hidden by magic—Diagon and Knockturn Alley for example, right in the middle of London—to protect both magical people and creatures. Huge bits of forest set aside for magical creatures so that they could thrive in their natural habitats and not worry about muggles tearing up the land to build five-story car-parks and enormous glass and steal monstrosities.

The more Harry traversed through this endless forest, the likelier it seemed that this was indeed one of those warded spaces. Subsequently, these places had also drawn in non-magical animals. Which meant he shouldn't let his guard down, as it was still possible to have a run-in with something he couldn't defend himself against.

So far, though, every animal Harry encountered was far more afraid of him than he was of it.

Two weeks in the forest, alone save for the silent passenger in his belly, was certainly an experience. There wasn't much to occupy Harry's mind as he walked for hours on end or stared into the glowing embers of his fire and waited for sleep to finally encapsulate him. He tried not to think of anything at all, not wishing to be distracted or caught off guard, but that eventually proved an impossible task as the forced silence in his head only drove him further around the bend.

Which caused him to turn to the only thoughts that didn't serve to remind him of the shite situation he had found himself in currently. The dreams had helped him through the war and in the end they had given him the most amazing gift he had never dared to hope for. He wasn't having the dreams anymore, but the memories of companionship could still serve to reassure him.

The more he thought about them, though, the more oddities he found. And perhaps it was just his bored mind fixating on nothing, but it did take his mind off things for a while. There were things that didn't really add up, though. Such as the fact that Tom could speak in his dreams but never spoke his name and didn't seem to really recognize him. Which probably had to do with the nature of a Horcrux and perhaps it wasn't really aware most of the time. However, the last time he saw the Horcrux—in the train station when Voldemort tried to kill him—Tom seemed perfectly aware then.

Also, the Tom he'd met in the train station had looked . . . younger. He was taller than Harry, but he lacked height and width of frame he carried later on in life. He couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen-years-old. In contrast, the Tom who had occupied his slumber was older, firmer, more built and sure of himself. If Harry had to hazard a guess at his age, he'd say he was closer to his early twenties or so.

No matter how much he thought himself in circles, though, in the end he always came back to the same place; dreams were nebulous at best. Even memories were subject to a certain level of unreliability. Though, such thoughts did keep him entertained in the pressing heat, they were nothing to miss needed sleep over.

* * *

Surprisingly, when he actually does encounter a dangerous animal, he walks away completely unscathed.

The further he walked, the less flat and level the land became. His progress was slowed down by steep inclines and rocky, jagged terrain. Harry had found a place to settle for the day earlier that morning. After a bit of exploration, he even found a small stream nearby and decided it was about time he gave his clothing a thorough wash.

Currently, Harry was crouched over the stream in nothing but his pants, rubbing together the material of his shirt while his trousers hung from a tree nearby to dry in the mid-day sun. It was a rare cloudless day with a pleasant wind threading through the trees like reeds and emitting low, phantom notes and cadences as it chased away the heat. Through the verdant canopy above, flickering pillars of light beamed down and left brief kisses of feathered warmth across his bare back. The song of birds echoed through the branches to promise him that he wasn't alone.

The small stream was not nearly as cold as the river he had left behind, but it was still quite cool and appeared fairly clean. His lips twitched triumphantly as he saw the dirt and splotches of dried blood fade away until it was nothing more than a shadow of a stain and the water ran clear trailing after the submerged material.

Pulling out the shirt, Harry wrung it out as well as he could before fiercely snapping the fabric and shaking loose a spray of smaller water droplets. Hanging it on the branch next to his jeans, Harry grabbed the material that used to serve as a bandage of his leg but now was more of a multi-purpose cloth. Not the most sanitary but there was only so much he could do with what he had and cutting up more of his cloak just wasn't an option, as it was his primary source of warmth on those frigid nights when the fire died out as he slept.

Harry sat down on a flat stone near the stream, dipped the cloth in the water and began to clean himself as best as he could starting from his dirty ankles up. It was as he did this, letting his mind drift away with the simple task of scrubbing at his skin until it was clean and slightly pink from his ministrations, that he felt comfortable and that, when he eventually made it out of this mess, all he wanted was a small house in the woods. Away from people, reliant only on himself, and able to raise his child in peace.

He wanted his little one to never know of the life he'd escaped from. Never know of the people who betrayed their father and tried to kill them before they had even taken their first breath. He didn't want them to know about 'The-Boy-Who-Lived' or 'The Dark Lord Voldemort'. He would homeschool his child if he had to. And if his son or daughter ever asked him who their other father was, Harry would tell them Harry was their father, and that he had just wanted them so much that they had appeared in his belly. Abstractly, it was true. He had not conceived his child, not physically.

He had not even met the tiny human in his belly, and yet he already felt more love towards them than anyone in his whole life! He had never known his heart could grow this big, that love could be this boundless, unconditional, or powerful. It suddenly made sense how his mother's love and sacrifice had done the impossible and deflected the killing curse of the most powerful wizard in centuries. His child made him want to do the impossible—like, he felt he could do it, for them.

Harry would do anything for—

Harry froze at the deep, resonating grunt that certainly wasn't human. Slowly, Harry looked to his left and found not even five meters downstream, ambling out of the foliage was a great beast of a bear. He didn't dare move an inch as he watched the creature lower its head and began lapping at the water rushing under its nose—totally unaware of the human boy crouched further upstream. Harry hardly blinked, his heart suddenly ramping up in his chest almost painfully so.

If he'd had his wand, this situation would hardly faze him. He could simply stun the bear—or better yet, he could just disillusion himself and go unnoticed. However, Harry didn't have a wand. He could barely cast aguamenti in his state without putting a strain on his body—which was already busy nurturing and growing his child—much less fully defend himself from a bear who was likely five-times his weight. He was just as defenseless as a muggle. More so, even, since he was nearly naked and didn't have his pocket knife on him to at least try to defend himself if the bear attacked.

His mind warred with itself, conflicted on whether he should try to flee or to stay exactly where he was and hope that the bear didn't notice him. Unable to make up his mind, Harry just sat there, staring at it and waiting for something to happen. He had faced deadlier creatures in the past—dragons, acromantulas, dementors, a basilisk—so why did he feel more afraid now than when faced with any of those creatures?

Harry's hand silently moved to protectively cover the nearly-flat plane of his abdomen.

Larger than his fear, a wave of strength bubbled up in his chest and clenched around his heart. He forcefully slowed his breathing and in turn, the pounding in his head subsided as the blood in his veins settled from a torrent to a calmer thrum. He focused every ounce of his attention on the threat in his vicinity, watching for the slightest shift to warn him he'd been spotted. The bear, however, continued to lap at the stream until it had apparently had its fill. As it raised his head, black eyes shining like obsidian marbles and loose jowls dripping with water and saliva, it seemed to blink lethargically and raised a large, dangerously-clawed paw and rub at its furry round ear for a moment as bugs zipped and buzzed around its matted fur.

As the bear shook the dripping water from the fur around its maw, it slowly turned around and walked back the way it had come. Harry, who waited nearly a whole minute to breathe properly, took note of the direction the bear walked so that he could try to avoid a reunion with it later on. Stumbling over to his wet clothes, Harry grabbed them and quickly made his way back to his little camp. He didn't wish push his luck and risk it coming back while he waited for them to dry. Besides, it wasn't like there was anyone out here to see him in his state of undress.

That night, even though his fire was built high, his clothes were clean and dry, and the wind had settled down enough to keep the nightly chill from turning unbearable, Harry found it very difficult to fall asleep. No matter how much he tried to force him to relax and rest because he needed every minute of sleep he could catch, his mind refused to settle knowing that the bear was out there somewhere—and perhaps other deadly animals as well.


	3. Dove in the New World

The moment Harry opened his eyes, he knew something was wrong. He was wrapped tightly in his cloak and the fire was surprisingly still burning rather well, but it felt as though his bones had been hollowed out and filled with ice. His body trembled and his breathing stuttered through his tight, rattling chest. _Shite. . ._

The night before, Harry had been gathering more wood for his fire, lost in thought as was common these past few weeks, when the storm hit out of nowhere and he was soaked to the bone before he'd even reached the shelter he had found for himself in another—deeper—cave. Harry had hurried to make a fire in the dark and as soon as it was lit, he stripped down and grabbed his cloak—which thankfully he hadn't worn out and was still dry.

He sat closer to the fire, ate more cooked meat than usual, and drifted off to sleep as early as he could, hoping it would be enough. _Apparently not,_ he thought bitterly as he pushed off the ground weakly and sought out his clothes. They were mostly dry and would have to do for now. He put them back on, wrapped his cloak tighter around his shivering form, and tended to the fire once more.

The earth beyond the mouth of the cave was wet from the showers, cold under the thickly-clouded sky, and utterly unforgiving. He could tell already that the chill wouldn't be lifting that day.

Staring into the flames as they danced with lividity, Harry pulled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them tightly. Dark fingers of fear coiled around his heart as he lost himself in the crackling and charring wood. _He can't get sick, not now. Not while he was stranded in the woods, without medicine or a wand. Not when he had so much relying on him. . ._

He was then reminded of how completely alone he was. He had no one to call out for, to help him protect what was most precious to him. No one to fuss over him as his already fair pallor blanched and beaded with sweat or feed him healthy food and potions alike to build up his strength.

Getting sick at home wouldn't be a big deal, but out _here_. . . Out here, if Harry was ill and unable to take care of his daily needs like set traps and hunt for food, or continuously go out for fire wood it could be a steep and devastating downfall. Not to mention that illness would also weaken his already strained core and he wouldn't be able to work _any_ spells. No spells, meant no water and no fire if it went out—which it just might because it was raining again, he could hardly stand, and any wood he might have collected would be soaked through. Harry _might_ be able to survive a few days of sickness, without much water (except what he could cup in his hands from the rain if it continued to fall) and without a fire, but . . . _but_ . . . Harry wasn't scared for _himself_. . .

In this impossible situation, without any curses flying his way out here, without a wand at his throat, he still had to face the reality that his child might not survive. And . . . and there wasn't anything he could do about it. . .

The only people who knew he existed wanted him dead and cold in the street, body ripped open like a bloody and visceral package to ensure that nothing inside him survived.

He had no parents.

No friends.

No allies.

 _Hell_ , the father of his child didn't even _exist_ anymore!

He had no one . . . no one but his child, and unfortunately, his baby also had no one but him. . .

As the heavy sheets of rain picked up once more and the wood was flooded with bleakness. As the harsh smoke of the fire scratched at his eyes and lungs, Harry's lips trembled for a reason other than the fever undoubtedly spreading through his body. Sucking in a deep, shuddering breath he felt a great tension swelling inside of him that he didn't know was there until it was threatening to crash over him. He gritted his teeth against it and tilted his head back but he knew it was too late and he was about to be dragged along by the undertow.

A trembling hand pressed to the barest swell of his stomach before curling into a tight fist around the fabric of his shirt. His lungs flooded with helplessness. And it was almost like he could _feel_ the heartbeat, a fluttering little thing weaker than the brush of a moth's wings and quick as a hummingbird. _His Hummingbird._ How horribly, _morbidly_ easy it might stutter to a stop, the small flame of a candle snuffed by a gentle breath.

 _I can't lose you. . ._

 _. . . please. . ._

Weeks of fear and pain and isolation had built up slowly in his lungs and arteries like hot, black tar. And now it needed to be purged and bled from him before he could take another step. . . He just . . . he wasn't sure if he could get it all out before it broke him.

Situated so close to the mouth of the cave, head still tilted back, he could see the sky from there. The clouds raged and poured out its icy rain, crying out at the earth with the distant rolling thunder that seemed to shake the towering evergreens and mountains alike. Fixating on the sky as cold tears rolled down his clammy face, completely ignored by the wizard. Harry shifted onto his knees and released a roar of his own. It was broken and angry, crackling roughly through his already raw throat. The sound echoed off the trees but was muted by the rain.

Dragging in a labored breath, Harry shouted again and again, body trembling with the force of it. His tears fell like rain, his breath a harrowing gale. He pulled in another breath to bellow his rage once more, but instead his chest constricted with a sob and he slouched back onto his heels. Clutching onto the fabric of his shirt and rocking slightly, the boy sobbed brokenly into the grim dark morning. He was consumed by his fear and his sorrow and he _just wanted_ ** _help!_**

He had only turned eighteen a few _weeks ago_. He hadn't felt like a kid in a long time, but _right then_ , he wanted to be one again. He wanted someone to come save him and protect him. He wanted someone to look at him with only kindness in their heart and to tenderly wipe way his tears, to hold him until he stopped crying and then to make him all better.

But, in the cold harsh reality, as rain battered the earth and the frigid stone under him began to numb his legs, he was forced to abandon those useless hopes. He cried in mourning for what he had lost, the fact that he had missed his chance to finally be taken in by a loving family and cared for. Now _he_ was the adult who had to swallow the pain and turn himself into an impenetrable shield to protect his little one. He had been building his walls for a long time, but it was time to mold them around his mind and let go of the scared, neglected child trying to take the reins in his head when things became too much.

He might lose the single most important thing to him for as long as he lived, he might be fighting a losing battle, but he would not give up until the sun finally set and there was truly no further for him to go.

It took a long time, but Harry slowly cried his eyes dry, pouring everything inside of him out through his sobs and clenching fingers until his chest felt as hollow as a drum. It was only when he was fully quiet, fully still, that he began to slowly rebuild his wits from the ashes and mud left in the wake of his breakdown. He carefully picked up his fears and inlaid them in the walls around his mind to keep them from devouring him, but also to use them to make himself stronger.

When awareness began to trickle back into his mind and he took stock of himself once more, his head felt less cluttered, more organized, less dark. Perhaps he was in denial of how truly bad the situation was and blinding himself to what he really stood to lose. However, the quiet vacancies of his mind were easier to face than the rage, grief, and fear.

Even if he was cracking around the edges, he had to keep going. He had further to go still.

* * *

However, things did not improve from there on out.

The rain didn't let up until the night had already fallen—confining the sick wizard to the cave—and by then Harry could barely keep his eyes open, bone-deep chills wreaking havoc on his aching body. He managed to seek out a meager amount of damp wood in the dark surrounding the cave. The fire did not burn high due to the wet wood, though, and it was no surprise when Harry woke up the next morning to find the fire had long since gone out and the cold seemed endless.

He knew that, throughout the following day that it wasn't _actually_ that cold, but Harry felt like he was one the edge of a harsh winter and that was far more concerning than the real temperature. He didn't want to move at all, everything inexplicably sore and a fatigue like he'd never felt before had settled over him. He was _so tired_ that being awake _hurt_.

He eventually unwillingly gave into his body, hoping that the risen temperature of the day would keep him from freezing without a fire, Harry gave into his exhaustion by noon. He woke up as the sun was setting and felt a heavy blanket of dread settle over him when the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was yet another downpour. He was able to weakly stumble over to the cave's edge, hold his hands out to the rain and capture a few shallow sips of rain water to drink. His stomach clenched painfully around his hunger, but he could only wait for it to pass.

That was the first night since entering the woods nearly three weeks ago that Harry went without a fire at night. His hunger, cold, and fear kept him up for a few hours, but eventually he had to succumb to the demands of his body and fell asleep again.

True to his deepest fears, on the third day, Harry woke up feeling even worse than the previous morning and he knew he was not getting better. His hope was crumpling like paper birds between his desperate hands, but his determination filled the empty spaces it left inside him. The rain had finally dissipated, which meant he could freely leave the cave, but it also meant that his meager source of drinkable water was gone. Harry wouldn't last much longer. His only chance was to get up and keep moving and pray to any god that might hear him that he find some form of civilization—preferably muggle.

On weak and trembling legs, body betraying him, Harry shuffled out of his cave and began moving again. All of his attention was devoted completely to putting one foot in front of the other. His strength drained away pathetically fast, but he kept moving based solely on his own will. He only took breaks when he became too dizzy to know which way was up and risked collapsing.

The trees were never-ending. They all looked the same. Each trill from a distant songbird turned into a screech. The humidity settling amongst the trees left his already feverish body flushed and practically dripping in sweat. The world around him kept tilting violently, causing him to dry heave several times as he leaned up against the side of a tree or rock face. Each breath dragged abrasively down his throat as if he were choking on the dry bark under his hands every time he gripped a trunk for support. He felt delirious, his mind melting with each agonizing step.

The only thing pulling him through the fog was when he mumbled under his breath something like:

 _"Please,_ little hummingbird, _please stay with_ _me_ _a little longer. . ."_

Sometimes his eyes closed involuntarily and he tripped, falling painfully and jarringly to his knees. Each time, he slowly pushed up off of the ground, hardly blinking at his torn jeans or the bright red smear of blood over his bruising kneecaps. . . And then, Harry fell back onto his battered knees again but this time he couldn't get up again. He pushed, grabbed trees and plants for support, but he never got more than a step before his legs gave out again. There was no strength left in his body, his limbs refused his desperate commands.

Grunting, Harry dragged himself a few feet over so he could lean against the trunk of a tree. If he laid down, he didn't trust himself to be able to get back up.

 _He just . . . he just_ _needed to regain his strength, is all_. Harry dropped his head back against the bark the heady fog of unconsciousness already clouding his mind and vision as he silently promised himself he would only rest for a moment.

The dull edge of panic was not enough to fight against the encroaching darkness.

* * *

 _"Oh my!"_

Harry jerked awake at the started voice—the first voice he's heard that wasn't his own in _weeks_ —pale green eyes looking around wildly in his delirium before they caught on a stout, older woman standing over him. The woman looked surprised, and ultimately concerned about the haggard-looking boy before her.

Harry blinked lethargically as the white noise in his mind was still too loud to hear any other thoughts clearly. His vision swam and he had to give his head a little shake to clear some of the clouds from behind his eyes.

The woman before him was dressed what looked like typical muggle hiking gear. A few chestnut-brown and mottled silver fly-away's slipping carelessly from her short ponytail. She also had a round, slightly lined, face with clear blue eyes and a dimple in her plump cheek as she crouched down and offered him a tentative, worried smile.

"Are you alright, dear?" the ring of her Welsh accent brought his drifting mind back to focus and Harry could only shake his head feebly.

The woman gave a troubled sigh and looked around them, as if hoping Harry had a companion somewhere that would appear and help the poor lad before her. Of course, none showed up and the woman found herself in the position to take care of the dire situation all on her own.

Harry blinked and felt the soft, cool press of her little hand against his forehead, followed by a disapproving cluck of her tongue.

 _"Oh child!_ Let's get you some place warm and dry." She carefully helped Harry to his feet, pausing a moment when he listed a bit, before pulling his arm over her small shoulders and allowing him to put quite a lot of his weight on her as they slowly began to walk. The woman was at least a head shorter than Harry and couldn't have been under the age of fifty, but she was surprisingly strong.

"Come on, dear, it's just through the trees. I have a cabin here that I visit in the summer. You're lucky I decided to walk this trail today, I usually don't, as it's a bit more challenging than the others and can be hard on the joints." She murmured as they kept walking.

Now that she mentioned it, Harry looked down and, _indeed_ , they were following a thin trail that could barely be seen through the foliage. As alertness slowly dripped back into his tired mind, Harry realized what must have happened. He must have finally passed the wards around the forest and entered an area not protected against muggles—as that was certainly what this woman was. He might be too weak to use his magic, but he could feel that there wasn't a drop of magical blood inside the woman currently lugging him towards her cabin.

Harry could hardly comprehend how damn lucky he was in that moment but all he could do was silently thank Merlin that he had been found, that his baby now had _a chance._

Harry didn't know how long they walked for, sometimes he lost snippets of time—one minute they were carefully shuffling their way down a decline, and then in a blink they were halfway across a clearing. Eventually, though, Harry spotted a quaint wood cabin through the trees and heaved a sigh of relief when they grew nearer. Before he could even fully process his surroundings, he was gently sat in a plush armchair in the small living room of the cabin.

The chair—with comfy red suede upholstery—was pulled up to a round wooden table that was covered in a lacy tablecloth with pastel flowers and birds all over. There was a softly crackling fire place next to him and the sweet scent of roses and wildflowers all around him. The room was packed with years-worth of decorations, quilts, miss-matched furniture, and knick-knacks.

Harry was staring dazedly at a vintage cat-clock on the wall when the woman—he vaguely remembers her telling him her name, but can't recall what it was for the life of him—fluttered back in with a fresh pot of tea and a plate of biscuits. _Had he really been sitting there long enough for her to make tea?_ Harry thought with a frown, hoping his mind would stop turning over on itself so much.

"Here you go. It isn't much, but I'll need a bit more time to make something more substantial for you." She spoke clearly, looking into his eyes to be sure he heard her. The woman heaved another worried sigh as she gazed at him before gently petting his hair, as Molly Weasley sometimes did during his Hogwarts years. Maternal and concerned.

"I don't know what happened to you out there or how you came to be alone so far out in the woods, but I do know that you'll need rest. First, though, we should get you something to eat and maybe some medicine for that nasty fever you got there." At this point, it seemed she was speaking aloud to herself more than she was to Harry, as the wizard hardly gave more than a nod or shake of his head when asked something.

"Will you be alright on your own for a moment while I go heat up some stew?" she asked slowly, waiting until he gave a shallow nod of his head before smiling and leaving him once more. She stepped through a door to what he assumed was the kitchen and Harry turned his attention away. Feeling the pressing heat from the fireplace, Harry unclasped the cloak from around his shoulders. He would have just let it fall back against the chair, but then he paused, realizing that he was in the presence of a muggle and a cloak was not typical muggle wear, so instead he stuffed the cloak into his expanded pocket. Harry sighed, settling back in the chair and reaching forward to wrap his painfully cold fingers around the steaming, thin-porcelain cup.

His cognition was slowly picking up the pace the longer he spent in the comfortable, warm room, away from endless trees and muggy air. Harry tightened his fingers around the cup in his hands. He wanted to gulp down the sweet and herbal smelling tea immediately, but just the thought had his throat closing up and clenching painfully. He hadn't had anything to eat and hardly a thing to drink in days and it would take a while to work up enough of an appetite that he didn't throw it back up a moment later.

Swallowing around his tight throat, Harry decided a sip wouldn't hurt and brought the cup up to his lips and was about to drink when an odd sound caught his attention. It was muffled, probably a room or two away—this cabin must be bigger than it looked—but he recognized it quite well. It was the _whooshing_ sound of a fire starting suddenly. Which in and of itself wouldn't be very noteworthy, except that a moment later he heard the rustle of hushed voices whispering back and forth. Harry froze.

He might not know where exactly he was, but he knew that the cabin was still in a very remote place, there was _no way_ a phone line had been connected all the way out here and he didn't hear the telling static of radio frequencies. The only explanation for him to hear two distinct voices was . . . _floo_ _._

 _But . . ._ she was a _muggle!_ He had felt it, she didn't have any ma- . . . _unless . . . unless she was a squib. . ._

Feeling his body flood with adrenaline and alertness, Harry tensed and carefully set his cup down on the tablecloth and slipped silently from his chair. Opening the front door with a soft _click_ Harry slipped out and was just about to close the door when he heard the distinct sound of someone stepping through the flood and he highly doubted the squib had _left._

Harry closed the door, spun and _ran._ He didn't know where he was going but he just needed to get away. He was running through the trees but he was still just barely close enough to hear the front door to the cabin slam open. _Fuck._ He had a head start, but Harry was still sick and though he had healed quite a bit in the past few weeks, it was the first time he had ran since his last encounter with the Order and he could feel the weakness of his calf and shoulder muscles almost immediately.

He couldn't think of that now, though, he had to focus on doing his damnedest to get away. He was suddenly glad he'd taken off his cloak earlier, though it was quite cold out he knew that the blasted thing would have gotten caught on all of the branches and underbrush.

Harry pushed his body to run faster, ignoring the weakness in his limbs and willing himself not to trip on anything. Though, the further he went, the more treacherous the landscape became. Sudden drops, cliff faces, crevasses, boulders, uprooted trees, and unstable ground everywhere that slipped, crumbled, and gave way under his feet. It all served to slow him down and block him in with dead ends.

The first curse soared past his head and Harry flinched away, weaving through the trees and taking on a shift of direction, hoping it got him out of sight from his pursuers. His heart was a heavy drum in his chest, battering his ribs and resonating through his body. He needed to lose them, seeing as he couldn't outrun them or fight them off. Unfortunately, instead of the forest opening up, it only became narrower with sheer walls of jagged black stone and dirt rising up around him. A winding maze of split earth, deep natural trenches that seemed to have been cut by the gods.

Harry was skidding around a bend when somewhere behind him he heard a deep splintering of rotted wood and a few heavy thumps followed by cursing. It had bought him only a few moments, but he would certainly take it. Harry slipped behind a large boulder, the space between it and the cliff behind it was barely large enough for him to squeeze through. The rock was cold and wet but he pushed all thoughts besides getting out of sight from his head as he moved further. He just needed to hide behind the rock until they ran past and then he could slide out and run the other way.

His whole body was shaking quite violently now, sweat at his temples and a horrid ache in his bones. Fear, an old and familiar companion, had once again sank into his mind, feasting on the vulnerable grey matter and scraping its claws against the inside of his skull. He heard running footsteps as the wizards seemed to have pulled themselves from whatever debacle that had held them up. He held his breath and watched the opening of where he'd climbed through, waiting for someone to appear in the sliver of space.

A small shadow passed overhead and he heard the hoarse _caw_ of a crow. Looking up, his eyes landed on the large bird perched on the top of the boulder. Its head flicked to the side a bit, but its glossy black eyes remained on Harry. There was a spark in his chest and he feared for a moment that the bird would cry out again and pull the attention of the wizards probably still in the area. However, a moment later, the crow emitted a strange warbled clucking noise in the back of its throat and flew off.

Sighing, Harry leaned back against the cliff but was startled by the open air behind him. Suppressing a small yelp, Harry craned his neck to look over his shoulder and sure enough, there was a narrow crevasse leading deeper into the stone. It was fairly small, and it was easy to see how he hadn't seen it before. The little tunnel was completely covered by the boulder in front of him. Most adults would not have been able to even squeeze through the tunnel. Harry, though . . . Harry was naturally shorter and had always been very thin.

He looked back at the gap leading out of the space he was currently in. He had planned on running as soon as he had the chance, but . . . if he had a better hiding place it might be better to just hide instead. He could see the exit to the tunnel behind him and that it opened up to some grassy area. Perhaps it would lead him to a better way out of the vicinity. Making up his mind, Harry took a deep breath before turning to the side and slowly slipping into the tunnel. The space was so narrow that he had to shuffle sideways and crouch a bit, but other than the involuntary panic at the enclosed tight space, he was able to wedge his way through without getting scraped up too badly and his stomach—what was most important—had enough room to not be squeezed between the rock.

On the other side, Harry was dismayed to find that there weren't any other tunnels or paths leading him to safety. Instead, he stood in a small clearing—only a few meters in diameter with a vertical climb of stone at least twenty-thirty feet up before you reached more grass and assumedly flat land. The only things in the space were, the thick overgrown grass under his shoes, a few large rocks that seemed to have fallen from the natural stone around him, and—most notably—a huge stone archway.

 _"What the. . ."_

Harry blinked at the sight before him, wondering just what the hell he was looking at—imminent danger momentarily forgotten. It was at least twelve feet tall, standing dead center in the clearing and leading to absolutely nothing. The stones comprising the archway were big and uneven: like they'd been carved by hand from the wall of rock itself and then slowly eroded away at by centuries of rain. The stones were covered in both thick verdant moss and an unidentified crusted-on residue from so much time sat there, exposed to the elements.

Stepping closer, Harry realized that there were also symbols etched into some of the stones— _again, probably by hand._ They weren't the runes he had learned in school, but they none the less seemed to hold a power of their own. This place clearly held magic, but it felt . . . _different. . ._ It wasn't just _there_ as most magical places or objects were, it felt like he could reach out and _touch_ _it_. He swore it was just like a live current running through the air, and the moment he made contact it would surge through him.

There was something distinctly alluring about it, but also something overwhelming and it made him feel cautious. Harry stumbled back a step, snapping out of it and remembering his current situation. He turned around, ready to slip back out of the clearing and make a break for it as he'd originally intended, but in that moment, he heard several sets of thundering footfalls just on the other side of the boulder.

 _"Oi! I think there's something back here!"_

The shout came from so close to the mouth of the tunnel that Harry felt his blood freeze in his veins. _Shite!_ Whirling around, Harry looked for something to hide behind, but the only thing big enough to cover him was the stacks of stones that made up each side of the archway. Mentally cursing himself, Harry dove through the arch so he could hide behind the pillar to his left.

However.

The moment Harry met the air inside the archway, it was like hitting a wall of molasses. He came to a complete stop and felt his whole front pressed against something warm that was slowly swallowing his form, even if the air before him appeared empty. Harry could pull away, couldn't move, couldn't _breathe._ His vision filled with white as he sank further into it and the almost-hot viscous sensation curled around his back until he was fully submerged. Faintly, he heard the shout of someone behind him but in a second it was muted completely as what felt like syrup flooded his ears, nose, and mouth. It filled his stomach and drowned his lungs and he wanted to cough or wretch but he was paralyzed to it.

He felt like this was his end, that he was going to die here all because he wanted to hide. But even if he hadn't he would have died anyway at the end of a former ally's wand. He just wished he'd lived long enough to birth his child and give them a chance at life.

He couldn't even feel ground under the soles of his shoes, he was suspended in whatever this was. His skin was humming with electricity and the substance that had invaded his body seemed to soak into the soft tissues and spread outward in a wave. It wasn't until it concentrated on something that Harry realized it had even been looking for something in particular in the first place.

It took an agonizing moment to understand what it was. Nestled in his chest, right beside his heart, it curled around his core. Never had he been so aware of it inside him, like a cold stone that had been hollowed out to hold his magic. It was nearly empty at this point. It filled with time and rest, the core never overflowing and never completely emptying. For a moment, he feared whatever strange magic was inside him was going to crush his core, make him pay the price for messing with the unknown.

But it didn't turn into a crushing force inside his chest, rather . . . it _soothed,_ it curled around his core and slowly permeated the unyielding stone shell. His core felt odd inside his chest, like the hard planes were becoming warmer, softer. As if the magic surrounding it was saturating it, dissolving it until it was thin, pliable. In the matter of moments, his core was no more than a thin, wet membrane to hold his magic. All it took was a little nudge for it to split like the skin of a grape and Harry's body was flooded with magic— _his own magic—_ like his core had been a container, a binding to dictate how much he could hold and without it to gage how much came in and left his body, it flowed in unrestrained.

If he could breathe, surely, he would have gasped at the sensation.

Like a gas released from its vessel, the magic filled the space of its new container— _his body_ —and he had never felt so much inside him at once.

It was only then that the foreign magic began to pull back from where it had invaded him, collecting in his stomach and lungs before lazily making their way back up and out of his nose and mouth. Frigid air touched his lips, like he was breaching the surface of still waters and he immediately sucked in a harsh, ragged breath as he continued to be pushed through.

Just as it had sucked him in, the magic peeled back from his form at a snail's pace until finally it released him and he was stumbling forward and crashing to his knees. His vision swam, it felt like there was a thick film over his eyes and Harry kept trying to blink it away as he dragged in air into his desperate lungs. What he caught glimpses of through the haze was darkness and _oh god, was he blind?_

It took nearly a full minute for the blurriness to fade from his sight and when it did, he gathered that, _no_ , he wasn't blind, it was just night. Frowning, Harry turned to take in his surroundings. He was in the forest, with only the pale sheen of moonlight above to make vague shapes out of their towering forms. He was no longer in the clearing, in fact, there wasn't even a stone archway around to indicate it had brought him somewhere else.

 _But he was . . ._ somewhere else, that is.

It was night, even though sunset should be hours away. The air was bitingly cold, enough so that thick white vaporous clouds puffed from between his chapped lips. There were even sections of forest floor not far from him carpeted in white. It should be August, and yet it felt like the dead of winter. The trees, from what he could see, were also different. Instead of thicker trees with wrinkled dark bark and crowded canopies of bright green leaves, these were thinner, but undoubtedly much taller. They also sported dark green needles high up instead of leaves. Harry could feel the dead needles under his palms.

Even the _air_ seemed different! Not only crisper in the late months, but fresher . . . _sweeter?_ He probably would not have noticed if he had not just spent nearly a month in the same forest with nothing to occupy himself with _but_ familiarizing himself with his surroundings. Because of that, he could confidently say that this place didn't seem to match anything he'd seen in the other forest.

Perhaps one of the most important things to note though, after getting over the shock in the sudden change of setting, was the utter silence of the forest around him. No Aurors running towards him. No snapping and hissing of spells flying through the air. No other wizards appearing out of thin air after entering the archway as well. He knew that they had been only a step behind him when he had entered it, if they had been able to go through as well, wouldn't they have arrived already?

Harry didn't know for sure, but in that moment, he was overwhelmed with relief. Clutching a hand to the little mound under his stomach, still so tiny, Harry pitched forward and held himself up on his other hand, nearly weeping in joy. He didn't know how, and he didn't know why, but he'd gotten away. It didn't matter where he was, it didn't matter if he never seemed to escape the forest again, all that mattered was that he'd somehow escaped.

As his relief settled and his mind cleared, a violent shiver wracked his haggard form and he was reminded of just how cold the air around him was. _At least he had his cloak still._ Still on his knees, Harry slipped a hand into his pocket to pull out the cloak he had shed earlier in the cabin. His head felt clearer than before, sharper, and the foggy fatigue of sickness seemed to have at least abated. He hoped that whatever had happened to him when he crossed under the archway, it had somehow eradicated his illness.

Harry paused as his fingers wrapped around a material thicker and smoother than his cloak. Frowning, he pulled it free from his pocket and gaped at the familiar pouch. Disbelieving, he shook his head. ' _It couldn't be. . .'_ he thought, _'I searched my pockets thoroughly, I even washed them in the river, there's no way. . .'_

And yet, there it was; the pouch he had lost somewhere in the wreckage at Diagon Alley. The bottomless pouch that had held all of his most precious and urgent possessions for when he thought he was leaving England forever. Snapping out of his shock, he pulled the leather pouch open and immediately began pulling items out.

His torn, dirty cloak that had protected him and kept him warm for the last few weeks. His expanded bag of galleons. The cool, watery material of his invisibility cloak. A shrunken trunk that held his clothes, sentimental tokens, and a whole bunch of books he felt he would need to keep to either teach his child magic later, or to help himself remain as independent from the magical community as possible. There were a few other items he felt would either be useful—Peruvian instant darkness powder, extendable ears, and a few other miscellaneous things he'd collected over the years.

There was also a coat he didn't recognize inside. It was pretty long, would likely reach Harry's mid-calf. The outside was a coarse-black fabric he couldn't identify, while the inside was lined with soft fur. The hood of the coat was lined with the thickest and longest fur, it was also black and was curled around the hem of the fabric to stick out and assumedly protect his face from rain or snow. Immediately, the freezing wizard shrugged on the coat and slipped the closures together over his chest. It was a good coat, loose enough to not impede his movements and would still fit him for quite a while during his pregnancy.

Harry reached back into the bag and finally pulled out the last—and one of the direst to him right now—item.

 _"Thank Morgana!"_ Harry sighed as his thin fingers wrapped around the rough handle of the Elder Wand.

Unlike the other times he had held the wand, the moment he gripped it purposefully, his magic did not surge up from his core, but instead burst from every part of his person. The brown needles around him rippled away by an unseen wave of magic. His breath stuttered in his chest and he was overwhelmed by how much raw power was coursing through him. _That's new._ Something deep in his gut told him it had to do with the archway and whatever it had done to his core.

Shaking the rushing thoughts from his head, Harry set the wand down and quickly shoved all the other items back into the expanded pouch before slipping it into a pocket on the inside of his coat. There were so many incredibly useful items in there, but there hadn't been a spec of food. Which meant he would have to go find some. Harry combed his tangled black curls out of his eyes, for his hair had become overgrown and wild. It was then that Harry noticed his glasses were gone. However, instead of being blind as a bat, he could see quite clearly. Perplexed, Harry prodded under his eyes as if that would give him any answers. It didn't. _Huh._ Perhaps he'd gotten more from the magic under the archway than he'd thought.

Harry picked his wand back up and pushed up onto his tired feet. He had no idea where he was, so he couldn't exactly _apparate._ For all he knew, he could be on the other side of the world, if he tried to think of any place he knew well enough to _apparate_ safely, he might seriously harm himself if the place he tried to go was too far away. And, actually, being as far from Britain as possible would be a good thing for him right now. Now that he has a wand, though, Harry wasn't nearly so helpless.

 _Case in point. . ._

Harry rested the Elder Wand in the center of his palm.

 _"Point me,_ food." Harry incanted, watching as his wand listed to the side before snapping into place in the other direction, pointing him towards food like the needle of a compass. Smiling, Harry began walking. Where ever he was, he hoped it wasn't _too_ remote, as he really didn't feel like hunting for his food anymore and he didn't want to be walking for days to find another person either. _Speaking of . . . where_ ** _was_** _he?_


	4. Call of the Canary

He had been walking for a little over an hour. Though, thankfully whatever had him feeling better hadn't been entirely a fluke since his strength didn't drain away after only a few steps. He also determined that the forest he was in wasn't any he had been in before. The trees were . . . _large,_ to put it simply. They were spaced apart enough for the sky to be seen above and their branches didn't seem to tangle too much, but they were also so incredibly tall; trees this old . . . either he was in another magically protected section of forest, or he wasn't in England anymore.

He greatly hoped for the latter.

Eventually the passive pale face of the moon was veiled by thick clouds above, draping the wood in velvety swaths of darkness. Harry had to cast a wandless _lumos_ from the tip of his finger so he could see where he was stepping and maintain the _point me_ spell on his wand at the same time. The unfamiliar coat he had found in his pouch exceeded all of his expectations for warmth and comfort. He didn't know how it came to be, or how he managed to have his pouch returned to him, but all he could do was be grateful.

Harry sighed in relief as he finally spotted a break in the trees, canceling his _lumos._ He kept walking with his eyes trained on the sight of plush grass beyond the tree line. He hoped it was a paved road he could follow— _or better yet, a town!_ He was still weak and exhausted from everything he went through earlier, he could seriously go for sleeping in a real bed tonight—even if he had to use magic to get past the muggles since they likely wouldn't except his galleons.

His stomach clenched emptily, causing his throat to tighten as he grimaced and picked up his pace.

He may no longer be feverish, but the aching in his extremities and the sore pulse of his shoulder and calf where his old wounds were told him loud and clear that not everything had been magically fixed. Harry knew a handful of healing spells, but they probably wouldn't do much on already closed wounds. He could certainly try later, but his tired mind was one-tracked at the moment as he finally breached the forest and came out on the top of a tall hill.

His brain sputtered in its tracks, struggling to process what lay before his eyes. It was not a cement road, nor the edgings of a town. It wasn't more forest or an empty field. Itwas _. . ._ itwas _. . . what_ _ **was**_ _it?!_

Stone. Pale as desert sand under the moonlight, structures of fair stone stretching as far as the eye could see. Long dirt and cobbled streets lined with torches and very old-looking oil lamps. Balconies littered with banners and laundry alike. Fluttering stretches of brilliantly died fabrics hung between buildings to protect from the sun during the day and keep in the warmth at night. Even from such a distance, he could see people and hear the distant, dull thud of drums. _A city._ But none like he had ever seen before. There were stone towers and huge structures full of archways, there were pale bridges over the wide river running through the city.

Rising from what seemed like the center of the city, was some sort of _palace_. It was enormous, it looked big enough to house at least half the population of the bustling city around it. It seemed like every window in said palace was lit with a warm glow and he couldn't imagine how monstrously huge the place would be up close. It was certainly larger than Hogwarts—one could probably fit _several_ Hogwarts' inside such a place—and looked far grander and older than the castle he had been schooled in.

Harry could only really see what lay far off in the distance, as his immediate view of the city was blocked by the biggest and most intimidating wall he had ever seen. It had to have been at least fifteen meters high, patrolled by men in white who walked between the towers built into the wall and watching for disturbances. They looked tiny and indistinguishable from where he stood.

Harry may have lived in England all his life, but he knew enough of the world to know that a place _like this_ simply did not exist. A place this huge and so densely populated, with this kind of intricate and ancient architecture void of cars or any modern conveniences did not exist! _So, how was it that Harry had stumbled upon it?_

His mind was whirring and spinning so much it made him dizzy.

 _Had he gone back in time?_

That was his first thought, feeling both confused and discombobulated by the sudden turn of events, he struggled to piece it all together. Time travel would explain what he was seeing now, but not _how_ he had managed to go back in time. Time travel had only every been safely done over a few hours— _not centuries—_ and even the most dangerous and daring wizards and witches had only managed to go back a few months before, no one had ever gone any further back than that.

Well, there was only one way he'd find out more about his current situation, and if it meant he also found some food and a place to sleep later on, then he wouldn't spend too much time debating over it. Pulling up the fur hood of his coat, Harry slipped his wand discretely into his sleeve and began the trek towards the gates.

The gates were open, beams of reinforced wood as thick as tree trunks bound together by bands of steel and iron. They looked like doors made for giants, and he didn't wish to know how many people it took to open or close them. Harry kept his head low as he passed through the gates along with a few weary-looking travelers either weighed down by their bags or guiding the reigns of oxen that pulled their carts.

He glanced around under the lip of his hood as he passed, noting that there was a higher concentration of guards here at the gates, but thankfully they weren't stopping and checking every person who entered. Harry kept his head low and tried not to stare too long at the sheathed swords strapped to their hips, feeling an odd fluttering in his gut at the formidable sight.

The first thing to greet him upon entering the gates was a statue three times his height. Carved from stone as white as snow and smoother than porcelain, a woman draped in robes with an equally pale veil over her wavy hair stood meters from the gates. Her head was bowed so her unblinking carved eyes could always see those who entered the city. One of her hands was pressed over he heart, while the other hand was stretched out towards him. Cupped with her palm facing the sky like she was either asking for or giving something, though her hand remained empty. Piled at her feet were flowers, foods, candles and an assortment of coins, wooden toys, and other unidentifiable objects. There were even several people who stopped whatever they were doing and knelt down before the statue to either pray or pay respects of a sort.

Harry, seeing this, figured the woman depicted must be some sort of goddess or figure of importance for the city. He did not pretend to pray to her, but if she really was their deity, he silently hoped she watched over him. He needed all the help he could get.

As he followed the majority of the people who had entered the city with him, he took to carefully observing everything. He felt like his suspicions of not being in his own time were confirmed by taking a good look at what the other people wore and how there was absolutely no inkling of the modern world present in the darkened streets he was walking through. He didn't know whether to be relieved or worried. Perhaps a healthy mix of both would do him good.

Harry was staring at the compact dirt path of an alley way that he was passing through, when he came out on the other side and he was startled by the lively street he had stumbled upon. The area was lit by oil lamps everywhere and even though it was fairly late in to the night, the street was packed with people shuffling from different buildings and portable carts that had been set up. The air here was much warmer with all the bodies and the savory scent of food.

Somehow, he had found the thriving night life of the city, but he was glad, as this was exactly where he needed to be. This clearly wasn't the wealthiest part of the city, but it was where he could meld into the blur of people and get what he needed. And what he needed, was food and a place to sleep.

Harry kept his hood up and his head low, but he did raise it enough to be able to eye the buildings around him in order to try to find an inn of sorts. Though, Harry had just barely started walking along with the river of bodies when he came across a crowd that took up nearly the whole street as they watched something and cheered for whatever it was. Curious, Harry weaved through the ring of people, as he couldn't see over anyone's heads. When he finally made it through, he froze at the sight before him.

Men donning similar colorful garments spun and flipped to rile the crowd with their acrobatics, however, that wasn't what caught his attention so raptly. No, what chained the wizard to his spot was the arcs of flame that followed the fingertips of the performers like brilliant billowing scarves. They weren't powerful and Harry had certainly seen more impressive feats of magic—but that was exactly the problem, this was _magic_ , and yet he could _feel_ that most of the people around him had not a drop of magic in them. There was even a smaller group of women on the other side of the men in long, richly dyed skirts commanding ribbons of water and trails of droplets with just the flick of their wrists as they danced and twirled to the jovial music being played for them somewhere on the other side of the crowd from him.

There were— _essentially—_ muggles everywhere, and yet these people were performing magic just for the entertainment of them. Harry felt utterly shell-shocked. _What the hell is going on?_ And the more he took in about the situation, the less it made sense.

The performers were using wandless magic, yet from what he could feel, they actually held very little magic themselves. Though, even more troubling than that, is the fact that Harry _knew_ that what he was seeing shouldn't be possible. History of Magic may have been a dreadful subject during his Hogwarts years, but he had at least learned enough to know that _never, in all of history, have muggles and magic-users ever co-existed like this!_

Not only that, but the magic they were using was completely foreign to him as well. It _was_ real magic, he was sure of it, but it wasn't like anything he had encountered before. It was . . . simpler, more rudimentary and nature-based than what he had experience with. He doubted any of the performers before him could work magic like a normal witch or wizard, doubted they could cast even a first-year spell, but they still had magic.

It didn't make sense, didn't fit. _'This,'_ had never been a part of history. Harry felt a cold finger of dread sinking into his guts as the odd pieces seemed to fit together in ways they shouldn't. Harry _wasn't_ in the past. He hadn't somehow time traveled. Wherever he was, it wasn't his world.

Harry felt the air rush out of his lungs all at once. The person next to him must have mistook his dawning horror for awe as the man turned and flashed him a sly smirk.

"Impressive, _innit_? People thinks only them fancy _nobles_ and _creatures_ be born with such gifts." The man shook his head with a bitter curl to his upper lip. "Even the lowest of us can be born with a bit of a spark. After that, all it takes is a good bit a learnin' to be able to work a bit o' magic!"

Harry watched the man with wide eyes as he went back to watching the show with his arms crossed and thin lips pursed. This man, who was obviously human and magic-less, spoke of it as if it was just common knowledge—and perhaps it was common knowledge here.

Harry slipped from the crowd and began thinking as he walked. _It was like he had slipped into some sort of fairy tale or something!_ The rational part of his mind chased the thought from his head. He hadn't been sucked into the pages of a book, he'd gone through the archway (which must have been some sort of portal or gateway, a tear between worlds) and now he was in another world. Or, more practically speaking, he was in a parallel universe. Both muggle and magical societies had speculated about parallel universes, the existences of dimensions beyond what they could see or feel. Neither had obtained a concrete answer about their existence, but there was enough theory out there to suggest it was quite likely.

So, if he was in another universe, it would make sense that both history and magic could be very different. For all he knew, even the geography could be different. He could see that there were obvious differences in the two worlds, but it couldn't be that different if these people also spoke English.

That is, unless they _weren't_ speaking English and he just didn't know it because he could understand their language. It the same way he could speak parseltongue but to him it still only ever sounded like English. Obviously something had happened in that archway—the subtle changes in his body's condition, the dissolving of his core, which he still had yet to explore the full consequences that would have on him and his magic—if the purpose of whatever happened there had been to prepare him to enter this new world, it stood to reason it might have allowed him to understand the language(s) spoken here.

Harry sighed as his weighted thoughts tangled themselves together as he attempted to comprehend everything, creating a dull throb of pain in the forefront of his skull the more he tried to think. Deciding to take things one step at a time, Harry refocused on his surroundings. He had more urgent problems to solve anyways. Like, how he was going to get the money for an inn. He didn't have currency that they used here and he doubted anyone here would take his galleons. They may be gold, but this was likely a rougher part of the city, people here were more cautious and wouldn't take payment unless they _knew_ it was good. Also, galleons were fairly distinct looking and the less that could be connected to Harry or made him stick out, the better.

Harry needed money immediately, and there weren't a whole lot of options. There also wasn't anything he _wouldn't_ do for the safety of his child. It was an easy conclusion to come to. He didn't have money, so he would take someone else's.

Perhaps the old him would have refused to steal out of some sort of misguided morality, but this wasn't about right and wrong. This wasn't about avoiding doing absolutely anything dubious out of fear of corruption. A lot had changed for Harry, and if he really was in another world, no longer watched by the entire English magical community, then he no longer had to check his behavior. No more walking on egg shells, he could put all of his focus on protecting what was most precious to him.

Harry pulled back from the stream of people, standing instead in the shadows between buildings to watch them and think of the best way to do this. Harry wasn't really a stranger to stealing. As a child, if there was anything he wanted or needed, he would have to steal it since Petunia would never buy it for him.

Mostly, he had stolen from convenience stores and shops—if caught stealing there he could slip away while they tried to ring the cops or the fake phone number he'd given them for the Dursley's, if the Dursley's caught him stealing from them, there was nowhere to hide and he would be locked in his cupboard all day. It had been quite a long time since Harry had stolen on the regular, but the memories and desperation were still there and he had always had very quick and nimble hands. There was a reason he suited the position as seeker the best. Of course, he had to stop once he entered Hogwarts, but he never forgot.

Harry even had a bit more help this time around.

Moving deeper into the shadowed alley way, once Harry was out of sight, he reached into the pouch in his pocket and pulled out his invisibility cloak. Donning the cloak, Harry slipped back into the street unseen. He was careful not to bump into anyone as he skirted the edges and scoped the area for a mark.

It wasn't hard to find one. The majority of the people about at this hour were stumbling in and out of pubs—or would _'tavern'_ be a more suitable name—and were all fairly drunk. Those that were busy during the day making any wage they could, flooded these streets to drink, eat, commune, and occasionally find the company of another. People still smeared with dirt, soot, oil, and so on refused to leave until their bellies were full and tankards empty. Men who couldn't walk straight and women with open blouses, hiked skirts, and piercing gazes looking for marks of their own. It was not a place of innocence and Harry held no pity for the man his gaze locked onto.

He was slumped against the ground at the mouth of an alley, unseen by most passerby. The man was clearly unconscious, the front of his shirt still wet with spilled ale and his head bent forward at an almost painful angle. Harry's nose wrinkled as he approached and even under the thin cloak he caught the smell wafting off of the man. A foul mix of body odor, alcohol, and vomit. The drunk man was absolutely _pungent._ Not wanting to get any closer than he had to, Harry wandlessly _accioed_ a small linen pouch of coins and walked away before he could wake.

Harry found another secluded spot to take his cloak off again and wandered around with his stolen coins to get hot, savory food from different stalls. Which also served to help him understand the currency he held a bit better before he found a seedy inn in what he assumed was the rougher and poorer district of the city.

Outside, he could here what sounded like the whisper of waves lapping at stone and wood alike and figured there must be a harbor somewhere nearby, which would explain the more run down area he was in—cheap lodging for those who were just passing through.

There were some carts and stalls here, and he could tell that the street around him was likely much busier during the day, but it wasn't food, drink, and entertainment these folks were selling. There weren't lanterns lighting these streets and any people Harry passed were walking quick, sure, and with their heads hung low so he never could make out any faces.

Harry could tell just by looking, that this place held dangerous people. Criminals. Clouded with the same dark and foreboding energy that had clung to the winding narrow passageways as Knockturn Alley. Instead of feeling dread or apprehension, Harry settled smoothly into the shadows of the area. _This_ was more familiar to him. Besides, this was exactly the kind of place that was _meant_ for Harry. He may be carrying a child, he may one day soon become a parent, but Harry was still a fugitive. Even in another world, if someone here ever found out what he's done in the past, he would surely be labeled a criminal.

He was a war criminal. He has killed people. He led a faction of people into battle and even dismantled his own government—regardless of it's corruption. He's used forbidden magic countless times—and would do so again if the need arose. He didn't even mean that he was the " _cause_ " of some people's death's—that was unquestionable—no, he has _killed_ people. During duels with Death Eaters, during the battle of Hogwarts, even in Diagon Alley when he was ambushed trying to flee the country, even then he had thrown out deadly curses in his desperation and knew they had hit their mark quite a few times.

Harry was a criminal. He had blood on his hands. Blood that he hadn't regretted spilling. He was dangerous, unfortunately very experienced, and desperate. Harry had his wand now, and though he still knew little about this world and the magic it held, he knew his own capabilities and did not fear walking along those darkened streets. He was safer amongst those who minded their own business and could recognize when they were outmatched.

And so, he found a decrepit little pub that held an inn up the stairs on the second floor. Honestly, it reminded Harry a lot of the Hogshead, and he wondered when this strange new world would stop reminding him of the one he had left behind.

The woman behind the bar was haggard, with frizzy bright copper hair and a mean sneer on her face. She was plump, layered in worn old clothing, and had round ruddy cheeks that did little to soften her glower. The pub had a few patrons, almost all of them sitting alone, drinking or eating quietly to themselves, causing an odd hush to clog the air.

Harry, whose bones were beginning to ache from his horribly taxing day and all the running and walking he'd been doing, walked up to the bar before his knees could give out right there in the doorway—as he doubted anyone there would be generous enough to help him up if they did. He could tell the woman's patience was wearing thin before he'd even approached the bar.

"Whatta you want, boy?" She spat out just as he opened his mouth. Harry's teeth audibly _clicked_ at both her venous tone and the grating, condescending title tacked onto the end. He'd never liked being called that in the past. Everyone who had insisted on calling him that instead of his name had all left him with scars that no one but he could see.

"A room." His face settled into something blank—a default of frigid aloofness—and his tone, though scratchy, was practically glacial. Before the woman could reply with more drivel, Harry carelessly tossed his stolen sack of coins onto the dirty bar between them. The man hadn't been carrying much money on him, but what was left should at least get him a night or two.

The woman pursed her chapped lips as she plucked the bag from the dark wooden top and curiously peeked inside. A flicker in her eye assured Harry that his night would be spent indoors for the first time in weeks. Her scrutiny became no less abrasive, but she did tuck the bag of coins into the dark folds of her skirts without complaint.

"You've got three nights. After that you'll be needin' to pay more to stay longer. There aint much in the way of rules, just keep your plights outside of these walls. And there'll be no fightin' in here, boy." She finished with a putrid curl to her lips, revealing blackened teeth rubbed with charcoal to fend of rot and decay.

Harry ducked his head and strode away without another word, ignoring the shrill cackling of the woman at the bar as he ascended the narrow stairs at the back of the room. Harry claimed the first empty room he found and the first thing he did was withdraw his wand and put up heavy wards. Harry didn't know whether it was his lack of using a wand and only using wandless magic for so long, or whether it had something to do with what had happened to him while passing through the gate, but his magic rose above and beyond his beck and call. Every little thing he did felt almost detrimentally overpowered, but he was far too exhausted to fully assess the situation.

As soon as Harry saw the small bed pushed up into the corner, all thought leaked from his mind as he shuffled over and climbed on top of the lumpy mattress. He didn't even bother shedding his coat or slipping under the wool blanket. He just curled up on his side and dropped off into a slumber that would even make the dead envious.


	5. Scrape of Talons

Harry slipped his pilfered coins back into his inner pocket; _Sither's,_ the coins were called. Of moderate value, named after a long dead king, and the most common currency of the non-wealthy people of Nandera—the land Harry has found himself in. Harry bit into the fresh bread bun he had just bought as he slowly walked the busy street, watching a group of children run past with shrieks and peals of laughter.

He's been here in this strange new land for about four days. He has learned a bit, here and there about this place, enough to go about without drawing unwanted attention. With all he has discovered, it has become absolutely certain that this was not the world Harry once knew.

Nandera. A powerful, prospering nation with land stretching as far north as snow-capped mountains at the edge of an icy tundra, to the hot and humid tropical lands in the south. From what he's heard, Nandera is populated mostly by humans, while other lands held races of creatures Harry has and hasn't heard of. Apparently, one of Nandera's former kings had some rather unsavory opinions on non-humans and most creatures had kept away since—which was reasonable, since there also seemed to be some shared sentiment amongst a minority group of Nanderians.

However, Harry cared very little for politics, especially since he was no longer thrust in the middle of it to be a figure head before he was even a legal adult.

Harry stuck mostly to the area pleasantly dubbed the _'Gallows District.'_ Wrought with criminal activity and the home to most of the city's poor, it was an easy place to stay anonymous. After his first night at the inn, Harry awoke feeling worlds better than he had in weeks—which didn't necessarily say much considering his previous living situation involved hunting for his own food and sleeping on the damp floor of caves. With the last of his stolen money handed over to the tavern's caretaker, Harry had gone out that morning with an empty stomach and the plan to once more relieve another unsuspecting mark of their Sither. Which soon became his only source of income.

He didn't take more than he had to, just enough to keep himself and his little one fed and with a warm, dry place to sleep. He had looked around that first day, getting his bearings in the city, as well as looking for possible work. The latter turned out to be fruitless. The only work available involved either heavy labor (out of the question in his state), a craft which he had no skill in what so ever, or the selling of goods he didn't have. Harry knew that the only thing he had to offer that no one else seemed able to, was his magic—however, he wasn't foolish enough to out himself and draw attention by waving around a magical wand when humans here had never even _heard_ of a wand.

Which left his only immediate option being _theft._ Not the most noble pursuit, but a fruitful one, assuredly. It was pretty easy, actually. Lawmen and officers didn't enter the Gallows District unless they were after someone specifically, and the main streets were so crowded during the day that Harry usually didn't even need his cloak to pickpocket.

Harry slipped past a middle-aged woman piling apples into basket in the crook of her shoulder, in the matter of a moment, an apple had found its way into his hand and he was biting into it as he strolled away. He tried not to filch anything directly from carts and tables, since the merchants here had a keen eye for thieves and knew exactly what was on their tables at all times. It just wasn't worth the risk.

Tossing the apple up into the air and catching it on its descent, he smiled down at the fruit in his hand. It was an adjustment— _to be sure—_ but after nearly a month alone in the forest, Harry accepted the situation for what it was. Sure, he had no idea how the people of this land would view his unique _'situation'_ and his future child, but even if he had to hide away until they were born, that was far better than having an entire government out for his blood. He would make the best of it. For his child, he would do anything.

As he was walking, Harry's attention was captured by the sight of a blacksmith using magic to blow flame against the tip of a sword and then quickly meld and forge it while it was still glowing a fiery orange. The display had brought in a thin crowd and Harry stopped amongst them to watch for a bit. From what little he had seen thus far, the magic of Nandera was quite fascinating. It still seemed to catch him off guard to see what would be considered wandless magic in his world, used almost commonly in these streets.

 _"Tch,_ that king of ours is going to drive the whole consulate to an early grave!" Grumbled a man off to his right, speaking to another man standing beside him. _Ah, the king._ Harry had discovered quite quickly that the kingdom's biggest form of entertainment involved gossiping about their beloved king. Not even anything truly important, mostly rumors of his personal life or fantastical tales from before he was king. From what Harry had heard, he was a young king, but a surprisingly competent one.

 _Praise for a king from his most poor and unfortunate,_ it was certainly impressive. _Especially_ considering the throne had apparently been acquired through conquest, and not inherited. However, Harry cared very little for stories of a king he didn't consider his own. Harry was a fugitive, an outsider preying on the people of this land to survive. If the current king was suddenly disposed in the night, bloody and dishonorable, he would hardly bat an eye. He held no loyalty to this land or its people.

Harry absently listened along to the conversation anyways, letting the affronted tone of the other man hold his attention as he watched the blacksmith work.

 _"Cobswallow!_ The consulate will be _fine!_ The king has ruled this land far better than that _fool_ before him. He has managed to keep peace with all the other kingdoms who had been just waiting to swoop in and snatch up this land for themselves." He huffed, crossing his arms over his broad chest and turning up his nose, even though he was a full head shorter than the man beside him.

"Aye, but it is his duty as the king to be sure his line is secure to the crown. He has come so far with this country, but all of that would be wiped away if he died without an heir. The man hasn't even _married_ yet! By the Great Mother Goddess, his stubbornness to remain unwedded is not so virtuous anymore, _it's reckless!"_ The man exclaimed, turning a bit red in the face with his outrage.

Unconsciously, Harry's thin hand slipped between the folds of his coat to rest over the still ever so small swell of his belly. He couldn't really imagine what it would be like to have so much pressure and outcry to produce a child. His had come into his unexpectedly, and if anything, there was even more outcry from his 'own people' to _not_ have a child. And even though it was very strange to think about it from a more objective perspective, it was true that Harry was still quite young. He had only just turned eighteen, and certainly hadn't been thinking about creating his own family at all before hand—not with the war and the threat of Voldemort hanging over his head.

Now, though, even trying to imagine where he would be without the gift growing inside of him, he couldn't dredge up a modicum of regret or disdain for his situation.

He might not give a damn about the king or his council of advisors— _'consulate'_ whatever—but he couldn't help but wonder how loved a child like that (created for the sake of maintaining control and power) could truly be, and whether a king so obstinate in remaining spouseless and childless would come to resent the 'family' forced upon him.

 _Though, harboring such thoughts earned him nothing._

Harry turned and left the still arguing pair behind.

* * *

The following night, Harry had slipped back into the inn behind a lumbering drunk man while under his invisibility cloak. Clarence—the 'lovely' name of the woman who managed the bar and inn while her husband spent nearly every Sither earned on booze and willing women for pay—hadn't liked Harry from the moment he wandered into her tavern. He didn't know why she glared at him every time he appeared in her sights—though she had mumbled something once about not trusting such a pretty face on a man, he doubted that was really the source of her ire.

The first few days she had mostly ignored him, but on the third night, when it was time to pay again and Harry brought in another sack of coins, her ruddy face had scrunched up like she had bit into a lime and she looked ready to refuse his money. However, Harry was likely her most consistent customer, and he had yet to throw up on any of her floors yet like several others dared to do. Whatever her problem, she had seemed to grow more and more restless and irritable with each day and Harry knew it was only a matter of time before she booted him.

Unfortunately, despite how unwelcoming the company was, that inn was actually one of the only ones in the area with rooms available and he knew he just had to bear with it until he found a better place to sleep. So, trying not to agitate her more, Harry had taken to coming and going under the invisibility cloak. _Out of sight, out of mind,_ as they say.

"I just don't see why he has to sneak around like a common criminal! This voyage will be dangerous enough as it is, taking so few of his men and sailing in secret is ridiculous. He is the _King_ , by all that is just, _why_ must he skulk around his own kingdom?" Harry paused at exclamation, standing near the bottom of the stairs.

 _"_ _Keep your voice down you bleating Billie-goat!_ " Snapped the other, glancing around at the other patrons to make sure they hadn't been overheard.

The two men mostly looked like anyone else, dressed in street wear and each bent over a pint. They seemed unremarkable—if not a little cleaner and well groomed in comparison to the Gallows District's typical residents—except for the cutlasses strapped to their hips, which were gleaming, finely crafted, and marked with the palace insignia on the hilt. Harry was shocked to see palace guards in such a place, surely the taverns of the wealthier districts would have welcomed the guards with open arms. Especially considering most of palace guards were noble men and came from very wealthy families—non-inheriting sons usually found work like that, it was the same in the history of his own world.

"Besides," the second man continued at a lower volume, "He won't be staying in his own territory. Meeting the Pirate King of the Southern Isles requires stealth. You seem to forget, Gregory, that our king is not the _only_ king and any wrong move by him could lead war right to our gates." He warned with a pointed glare.

Harry shook his head, once more reminded of how different of a world he now lived in. _'Pirate King?'_ what had he gotten himself into?

Harry silently walked away just as Clarence was bringing over two more pints for the guards.

* * *

It was time for Harry to leave.

He's only been in the city for a full week, but he knew it was time for him to move on. He had heard of other cities he could go to and continue to steal until he found another means to make money. The Gallows District has been fruitful, but it was no longer a safe place for him. It seemed that— _practically over night—_ everyone had heard of the new mysterious thief plaguing the district. Beyond the usual round of desperate pick-pockets, people had put together that most of the recent thefts were one person. Someone who was never seen nor caught, and could rob a man blind in the blink of an eye.

The rumors had riled up the public and set everyone on edge. Harry could probably continue to go on stealing without being caught, but hyper-vigilant citizens would not make his job easy. He knew, better than _anyone_ , that it was better safe than sorry.

And so, that morning, Harry had been sure to have all of his possessions on him when he left the inn. He still had another night paid for, but he wasn't going to tell Clarence his plans to leave. He didn't trust the woman not to try to stab him while his back was turned now that she had wrung as much money out of him that she could.

Harry was walking through the bustling market place, just as he had done every morning since arriving in this strange world. The sky was a bit overcast, the floor still wet from early morning showers. Everyone's heads seemed a bit foggier as they shuffled through their routine, either pedaling their wears or starting to prepare food that would chase away the scent of wet stone and stale bodies.

Harry had only meant to make a quick route out of the city and be on his way to the next. Perhaps it was the knowledge that he would be leaving for an unforeseeable length of time, but it had him looking around more than usual, casually scanning the area for anything he might wish to buy before he left. During his time here, Harry had only been concerned with food and shelter, but he knew from his many trips through the area, that some of the tables actually held some very interesting items.

Further up the road, hidden by the clogged streets, he heard an odd pick up of noise, some sort of disturbance up ahead. Whatever it was, Harry didn't need the trouble. As he turned to find a branching ally way to take him to another road, something caught his eye and Harry paused. Beside him was a table piled with folded squares of fabric. Cotton, linen, chiffon, velvet, lace, silk and satin. Ranging from all manner of dye, cut, and quality. However, the focal point of each bit of material was not the fabric itself, but the beautiful, intricate hand-sewn embroidery displayed with the careful folding of the fabric.

There were stretches of complex designs that must have taken someone a very long time to craft; depicting flowers, stars, butterflies, peacocks, or even landscapes. They were all impressive in their own right, but only one had caught Harry's eye. A dark blue silk, like the reflection of the midnight sky off of the ocean, without a single snag in its finely woven material. The most important part resided in the bottom corner, embroidered with vivid violet, indigo, emerald, and black silk thread, was the depiction of a little hummingbird mid-flight. Reaching out, almost tenderly, he followed the little curve of the creature's head with the tip of his finger. It was so intricately made, it looked as if it were going to suddenly fly away at any moment.

With something tenuous clenching around his heart, Harry finally picked up the fabric—perhaps some sort of handkerchief—intent on paying for his newfound keepsake that reminded him so much of his little one. However, just as Harry lifted his head to ask the wrinkled woman behind the table how much the handkerchief was, Harry felt something cold wrap around his wrist and just as suddenly, he lost all feeling in his hand and halfway up his forearm.

Whipping his head around, Harry came face to face with a disgruntled-looking palace guard— _one of the guards he had seen at Clarence's inn_ —who was reaching for his other arm to also lock it into the strange looking wooden cuffs that had caused one of his hands to already go completely numb and useless. Panicking, Harry jerked back and slipped the handkerchief into his pocket before his free hand was yanked back in front of him to clasp into the cuff before he could fight anymore. Seething, Harry sent a burst of magic down at the cuffs, but whatever magic had been used to render his hands useless was also resisting his magic.

He would have apparated right then and there—the consequences of being seen be damned—but the guard had a hand firmly wrapped around his bicep and would only cause him to side-along _apparate_ the guard as well.

 _"_ _What the hell do you think you're doing? Release me!"_ Harry ground out dangerously. A mix of incredulity and fear practically tinting his vision red.

"We have received a grievance that you have been breaking the law and stealing from the people of the capital. You may plead your testimony at the commissioner's office—"

"No time!" Announced the other guard he had seen at the inn, who had just been tucking away a pocket watch as he approached. "We've already wasted enough time looking for him this morning. We don't have time to escort him to the palace. We'll just have to bring him down to the docks with us and hand him off to someone else." Harry growled in protest as his other arm was grabbed by the guard and they began to lead him back down the street in the direction he'd come from—the direction that he knew that the harbor was in.

What neither of them knew, however, was that the man they had just arrested was no common thief. Infact, Harry had likely seen more of war and death in his short life than either of them had combined. And so, almost immediately Harry fell quiet and calm, all of his focus turning onto the enchanted shackles paralyzing his hands and used wandless magic to meticulously begin eroding away the effects of the cuffs. He walked on autopilot, hardly blinking at his passing surroundings as he was marched through the streets.

The cuffs were strong, but they wouldn't hold for more than an hour if he kept up his ministrations. If he was taking a detour to the docks before the palace, then he'd probably be able to get out of them before he ever found himself behind bars.

So focused on his task, Harry only realized his surroundings when the air was sharp with the scent of the sea, the thriving fish market set up right on the harbor, and the musk of unwashed bodies coming from those returning from sea. Harry had never ventured down to the docks, but now a small part of him wished he had. The crowds were cast in shadow by the huge vessels and billowing sails that inhabited the docks. He hadn't expected the ships to be so . . . _enormous_! Bigger than houses, and completely steady and unmoving in the shallow waves surrounding the hull.

Each ship was unique in size, shape, color, and level of disarray and damage. Harry watched as quite a few of the plainer ships were loaded and unloaded of its goods and supplies—likely cargo and trade ships—but he also spotted a few more intimidating, wicked looking ships amongst them (usually with more damage along its hull that had been hastily repaired at sea) that seemed as though they flew darker colors when at sea.

Neither of the guards on either side of him paid any mind to those vessels, clearly turning a blind-eye to the _less-than-savory_ characters littering their decks. They kept their eyes forward and their pace relentless. The morning sea air was crisp, and the cries of the seagulls overhead agitated his burgeoning headache as Harry continued to use his wandless magic ceaselessly to free himself as they moved further down the docks.

Harry vaguely remembered the conversation he had overhead between those two guards the other night—something about the king and a secret trip to see some Pirate. They had said something about the king moving around discretely, but he had still expected them to be using some sort of military vessel for travel. However, the ship that the guards stopped before and carefully began to board with Harry in tow, was just as nefarious-looking as any of the other non-cargo ships he had eyed along the way.

The ship was massive, even in comparison to the other large ships docked around it, and the weathered wood that comprised the hull's sturdy walls was stained so darkly it looked nearly black. Some of the vessels had carefully crafted figure heads and carvings on the front of the ship—either animals that displayed the identity of the vessel to all, or some fearsome maiden in various states of dress or species—this ship, though, was bare. Just smooth dark wood under the long extension at the front of it. The blank anonymity of it clenched ominously in Harry's diaphragm as he carefully walked up the steep wooden plank that served as a bridge between the ship and the docks.

When his feet were firmly planted on the deck, one of the guards immediately walked off, perhaps in search of someone who could take the thief off their hands. By that point, Harry had worn enough of the enchantment on the shackles away to be able to use his fingers and could feel the leaden weight on his magic lift enough for it to feel like he had some control back. Now on the ship, Harry glanced up at the towering masts and thick canvas sails, feeling incredibly small in that moment.

Unlike the other ships, this one was abuzz with activity as a large crew of men were hurrying about, preparing to depart at any moment. Unfortunately, it seemed that the acute focus of some of the sailors was not shared by all and their arrival on deck quickly stole most of the crew's attention, stopping them in their tasks to wander down to the main deck.

Harry eyed the crewmen and picked up immediately that these were not the king's guard out of uniform. The man still firmly gripping Harry's arm was straight-backed, clean, well groomed, and clearly born of wealth and status. On the other hand, the men gathering closer to get a look at the both of them were surly, either rippling with muscle or looking underfed, skin glistening with sweat and dark with both old tans and new burns. There was a wild, dangerous light in their eyes and an underlying crudeness to their mannerisms.

Harry was beginning to doubt his assumption that _this_ was the secret trip he had heard about previously. Harry was surrounded by criminals and he honestly could not see a king making company with folks such as these.

Harry tensed as he watched one of the men break away from the rest and approach them with a grizzly smirk painting his chapped lips. The man was at least a foot taller than Harry, his shoulders nearly twice as wide as the younger man's, with a shaved scalp and arms like tree trunks. The hand on his arm tightened, and he didn't know if it was to restrain him, or an unconscious response to the dangerous man approaching.

"What do we have here?" The man jeered, tone both gravely and droopingly slick with hidden intention as he eyed Harry's form, heedless of the glacial pale green gaze practically flaying him where he stood. The man's eyes never left Harry, but his grin grew twice as wide. _"His Majesty_ finally deciding to play nice and bring us some company for the long journey?" His gaze was awash with amusement as he looked at Harry as if he were some- _thing_ only worth the warmth he brought to someone's bed.

Several men howled with laughter behind him. It was probably just a vulgar joke, but when the man before him reached out to touch Harry's cheek, the incensed teen acted on instinct to protect himself and his child, causing his magic to lash out without a second thought, no longer crippled by the magic in his shackles. In a split second, Harry wandlessly and wordlessly threw a powerful _Incarcerous_ at the man.

Ropes as thick as his forearm and painfully abrasive suddenly wrapped around his neck and jerked him backward before his hand ever made contact with Harry's cheek and elicited a gurgled shout from his throat. He stumbled back a few steps as more ropes wrapped around his arms, legs, and torso. They constricted like powerful snakes and caused him to fall to ground, body jerking and contorting as it was relentlessly yanked into immobility. The other crewmen either stumbled away in fear or surged forward to begin pulling uselessly at the ropes.

Over the commotion, a hush befell the on lookers and even the most focused of the crew grew still and turned to watch as the huge man struggled and writhed on the ground. Harry took a deep breath and tried to settle the livid fear that had cropped up in his gut and regained enough control over his emotions to cease the ropes' attempts to strangle to life from the man before him. As his grunts and shouts settled down into exhausted panting and the man fell back against the deck almost limply, the silent tension amongst the crew was palpable as they turned their attention on the still-glaring young man that was clearly the cause of the impossible feat of bewitching they had witnessed.

Magic was elemental— _as_ _natural the sun rising in the morning or thunder following lightning—_ it didn't create _something_ from _nothing_ like that! It wasn't so purposeful like that, used in such a strange and unfamiliar way. The boy before them was small, thin, and hardly looked old enough to drink, and yet he was inexplicably dangerous and powerful.

Harry stared down all those who dared to look at him for too long, filling the atmosphere surrounding him with aggression. A figurative bearing of claws and teeth, hackles raised and defenses up. Harry was still shackled and vulnerable, but he wouldn't allow anyone to think for a second that they might be able to overpower him. Some of his key cards were on the table and he was not going to have an inch of give and let it be used against him.

The silence was broken by the sound of a door clicking open and Harry turned to his left to see the door settled between the two staircases that led up to the top-most deck at the back of the ship, swing open and the guard who had disappeared earlier, strode out. He then promptly stepped aside, turned to the side, and bowed his head respectfully as another man followed him out into the morning air.

As Harry's eyes took in the man, everything in his mind came to a sudden, _violent_ _halt._ Everything and everyone else was forgotten when dark, stormy blue eyes met his and the other man froze as well.

Glossy dark brown hair settled in a gentle, yet controlled wave. Impeccable alabaster skin that he had reverently caressed so many times in the sacred halls of his mind. Full, lightly flushed red lips that he intimately knew tasted of honey and thunderstorms. Handsome and beautiful features he had marveled at in quiet moments of comfort and peaks of pleasure. Broad, strong shoulders that he had gripped tightly in his most vivid and intense moments. He hadn't uttered a word, and yet Harry already knew that his voice would be a deep, dulcet baritone that sent shivers up his spine, having been invisibly tattooed onto the skin of his throat and engraved into his bones. It had whispered adoringly into the shell of his ear and the tender flesh of his inner thigh alike. His phantom lover.

 _Tom. . ._

There he stood. _Impossibly._ Tall, imposing, and regal. In a world Harry never imagined to find him in. Looking no more than a few years older than him without a trace of the mutilated, snake-like visage he had sported at the end of his life. He looked young and healthy and _powerful_. Harry's mouth was dry and he felt like he could hardly breathe. The unmistakable recognition in Tom's eyes doing everything in its power to further befuddle the younger man in his state of shock. Reflecting in Tom's expression was the same unmasked shock, confusion, and strange overtone of _reverence_ that Harry knew displayed plainly on his own features.

As if pulled forward by some unseen force, Tom shuffled a few paces closer until they were within reach of each other and Harry was able to gage just how ridiculously _tall_ the other man was.

When Tom finally spoke, his voice was just as enchanting and consuming as he remembered, washing over Harry like a strong ocean wave and nearly distracting him completely from the words spoken.

 _"It's you. . ."_ It was hardly more than a whisper, but Harry heard it as clear as if he had shouted. He may not have really registered his first words, but the following statements struck Harry to his core and upended the world around him.

"I thought- . . . I _feared_ you were but a dream." Tom shook his head slightly, as if disbelieving of the sight before him, not trusting Harry to not turn to smoke and disappear. Harry felt his eyes widen and sudden, overwhelming compression capsized him. _That meant . . . this was not just '_ _ **a**_ _Tom,' this was_ _ **'The**_ _ **Tom**_ _!'_ Not just Tom from an alternate reality, but the very same man who Harry had shared his dreams with, the very same man who pulled him out of his darkest moments, the one who had _saved_ Harry.

 _The one who had given him his child. . ._

This was not just because of the horcrux that had resided within him. _Somehow, for some reason, his link had transcended reality, reached through time and space, and had connected him to a Tom who knew nothing of his world or the war that had ravaged it._ The very first thought to surface from the pandemonium of his mind was, _'Huh, no wonder the Tom in his dreams hadn't recognized him at first.'_

Tom seemed to pick up on his thoughts—if only vaguely—from his expression. Some of the confusion dissipated from his eyes, replaced by a growing fascination and raw curiosity.

"So you remember as well. . ." He stated under his breath, as though he hadn't known he'd spoken aloud.

 _"My king?"_ The hesitant voice broke through the bubble surrounding them, unbidden and unwelcome. Harry turned to find the guard who had been holding his arm before, had let go and was now bowed respectfully before Tom. With a brief glance around, Harry noted that a few of the crewmen had also dipped their heads slightly in a barest semblance of deference. And that was when it clicked in his mind that this Tom was not only _that Tom,_ but also the famed King he had heard so much about since arriving in Nandera. Harry really wasn't sure anymore what matter of incredulity was supposed to take precedence now.

Harry looked back at Tom just in time to see the man's eyes flicker thoughtfully from the shackles around his wrists, to the sailor who was just now picking himself up off of the deck, still a bit winded and harsh red marks forming on his skin that would undoubtedly transform into brilliant bruises with time. Then his gaze shifted back to Harry's and it was like they were caught once more. Unspoken words flittering through the air between them like pale moths.

And then the silence was broken by the last words he had expected to hear.

"He's going to accompany us." Tom stated, heedless of the befuddled looks he was receiving from everyone.

" _Your_ _Majesty_!" The guard sounded incredulous as Tom reached forward and wrapped a gentle but firm hand around Harry's still-shacked wrist and led him back towards the door he had exited from without another word. Harry could only frown and stare perplexedly at the back of the taller man's head. When he passed the crewmen, Harry noticed the way they stepped back and sent him wary looks.

Harry didn't know what to expect when he was led into the place Tom— _The bloody King—_ exited from, but it hadn't been _this._

The first thing to catch his eye was the large window at on the opposite side of the room comprised of wrought iron and small, thick glass panels that flooded the room with grey light. Which illuminated an oak desk covered in half-rolled up maps and various documents. There was another table off to the side that was stacked with even more maps and several thick tomes to weigh them down. In the middle of the room, there was also a couch and a couple of armchairs facing each other. There were latched cabinets full of books and all manner of objects. All of the furniture had been nailed to the floor to keep it from sliding around on the rough seas, _assumedly._

But, that was not all that was in the room. Harry also noted the large, plush bed in the corner that was piled with silk pillows and soft down blankets. Though this room may function as the Captain's quarters, it had clearly been commandeered by the King. In the back of his mind, Harry wondered if the King just slept there, or if he had actually taken up the mantel of Captain for his journey.

"Stay here, don't touch anything. I need to prepare for our departure, and then we can talk." There was a thickness to his words, Harry noted, like he wasn't sure what to say or what to do with himself. Harry said nothing, a frown still inhabiting his features, and watched as Tom nodded to himself and them promptly left him to his own devices.

As soon as the door clicked close, Harry dropped down onto the comfortable seat of the couch and returned all of his focus to the cuffs around his wrists. He didn't know what had just happened or what Tom's intention towards him was, but he needed to get off of this ship before it set sail. It is one of the most important rules that one does not attempt to _apparate_ over open water. Within the ship? Fine. But from the ship to the docks? Harry would end up appearing with his feet planted on the seafloor if he tried.

Harry may be starting to regain control over his magic once more, but it was not nearly enough to _apparate._ No, he needed to get out of these cuffs!

Concentrating his magic on stripping away the shackles' enchantment, Harry let his mind drift back to Tom and what on earth to feel about _that._ Tom obviously knew of the dreams they had shared. But that was it. He didn't know of the life Harry was harboring, or the world he came from, or even his _name!_ Harry didn't know why he had decided to bring Harry with them—perhaps for answers, or maybe Tom didn't even know why he did it either, caught up in the moment and confused—but Harry knew one thing: this Tom was essentially a stranger. He may have seen Harry at his barest, they may have shared moments more intimate than Harry has ever shared with anyone, but the young wizard knew nothing about the King.

Harry didn't know what Tom was like, how he may have felt about the dreams. He couldn't predict how the other would react to discovering Harry carried his child. Whether he would take the child from Harry's arms the moment they were born to have his heir, or perhaps reject the notion of what Harry held inside him and try to harm his child as well. It was all up in the air, and Harry wasn't waiting underneath it for when it would come down, praying it didn't hit him. A good king, did not necessarily make a good man.

Besides, it was _Harry's_ child. They were housed within _his_ body, he had been the one to protect them from danger against all odds. Harry had traveled to another _universe_ just to save his little one. He would not put the fate of his child in the hands of a stranger. Harry would leave this wretched ship, he would escape once again, and he would leave Nandera as quickly as possible. The fate that brought him and Tom together again be damned, Harry would leave and never return—never again look upon the face that he had caressed and peppered with kisses in his most vulnerable moments—if it meant shielding his precious baby from harm.

Harry didn't trust Tom, and he was getting out of there.

With a soft _click_ , the cuffs finally fell away and Harry released a shuddering sigh of relief as his magic once again flooded his body and he had full use of his hands. Standing, Harry glanced out the window, which looked out on the harbor, only to find his breath catching in his throat to see it was much farther than it should have been. Rushing over to the window, Harry pressed a desperate hand to the cool glass as he watched his means of escape slowly drifting away from him. He didn't know how long he had spent trying to remove the shackles, but in that time, the vessel had set sail.

Harry turned away from the window as he heard the door opening behind him and his face immediately melted back into an obstinate frown at the reappearance of the King. Tom blinked at him before approaching the spot he had vacated, leaning down to pick up the cuffs and then settling a slightly wondrous gaze on Harry.

"I suppose from what I heard from Gregory, I shouldn't be all that surprised you managed to get out of these." He shook his head and let them clatter loudly onto the small table situated between the couch and the armchairs. Tom took a seat in one of the chairs, looking regal, but the comfort to his posture belied a life before his kinghood.

"Sit." He gestured towards the couch, but Harry didn't move or speak. Not to be spiteful, but to keep as much distance between them as possible. He was stuck on this ship until he found a way off, he would proceed with the utmost caution.

Tom sighed when Harry remained in his spot near the window.

"I heard from Gregory that you're a thief. That you have been wreaking havoc in the Gallows District." His words were probing, looking to provoke a response from him. Still, Harry said nothing. Tom studied him, looking for anything to answer him where Harry's silence did not. His dark blue eyes narrowed and he spoke his next words carefully.

"Where did you learn such strange magic? I've never heard of anything like it before. Did you have a teacher? Have you always been able to do that, make rope appear from thin air? Was it some sort of trick?" Again, silence. Tom huffed and slumped back against the chair, mumbling under his breath. _"Do you even speak?!"_

Harry was tempted to either turn back towards the window or maybe venture out on deck and assess his options. He was just beginning to turn away when,

"How did you do it? How did you get into my dreams? Was it some kind of enchantment, like the one you did outside?" His deep baritone was hushed, not aggressive but intense. Harry whipped back around at the words and for the first time, approached the seated King. He didn't sit, but he stopped in front of Tom.

"It was not my doing." He stated firmly and Tom looked back up, taken off guard. "I . . . I don't know _why_ we shared those dreams, or _how_. To be honest, I didn't believe _you_ existed either. All I know, is that for some reason, we were able to meet while asleep, it went on for months. And then one day, it stopped. I don't know why it stopped either."

Tom seemed to absorb the information. After a while, though, he nodded minutely and got to his feet as well. He still appeared to be lost to his thoughts when he spoke again, not even looking at Harry.

"You can stay in here tonight, I don't know how accommodating the crew will be after what happened." Tom was already leaving the room, not giving Harry the chance to argue or even ask why he would do that.

Once more alone, Harry turned to look at the bed that had been given to him for the night. _Well, it was probably worlds more comfortable than whatever lodging the crew had._ He would take it.

 _However_. . . Harry thought as he shifted his cautious eyes back to the door, _if Tom thought this meant Harry was going to share that bed with him and rekindle their previous endeavors, he had another thing coming._ Tom might be king, but Harry knew enough wards and locking charms to keep out an army. And if he _still_ managed to get in, well, Harry also knew an ungodly number of defensive spells.

This new world may be dangerous and gritty and violent, but pity the man who ever thought he could take what he wanted from Harry Potter.


	6. Blue Jay at Midnight

At noon, Harry left the quiet confines of the captain's quarter's when curiosity had worn a hole through his concentration. All of the sails were down and riding the fearsome gales, propelling the massive ship through the water. All around Harry, men were moving about carrying crates, checking the rigging, or high up in the air, running along the tops of the sails and hanging out of the crow's nest as if their feet had never before touched the ground. It was bustling and loud and _fascinating._

Harry weaved through the traffic of bodies and made his way to the side of the ship. His breath caught in his throat at the sight before him. The ocean was endless, not a spec of land nor ship on the horizon. The blazing sun above reflecting flakes of silver and mother of pearl over the water's surface, flickering in the waves licked up by the wind. The winter air was cool but the sun above lapped warmth into his skin.

Harry's eyes slipped closed and his head tilted back as he gripped the railing fiercely to keep his balance. The wind swept past him and threatened to lift him up off the deck. He drew in the cold sea air and felt it hollow out his chest. There was an inexplicable sensation settling over him in that moment, as if time stood still and the frigid salt water was flooding into him, and a bit if himself was going back into it. He felt . . . free, he felt . . . whole. . .

"Beautiful, ain't it?" Harry's eyes flicked open and to the side. Beside him stood a boy—for he truly was just a boy—no older than fourteen, with golden blonde hair, a wiry frame that still had some growing to do, and a soft face that belied his youth. The boy, obviously part of the crew, stared out at the sea reverently as though it was the only home he'd ever known. Harry could see the ocean reflected in the boy's clear blue eyes. The boy returned Harry's gaze with a beaming grin.

"The name's Lucas. You're that new fella, right? The one everyone's been talking about?" Lucas set down the box he'd been carrying and instead gave Harry his full attention as he leaned back against the railing. He could tell from his open demeanor that Lucas was a naturally bright and exuberant boy. He wondered how he ended up with such a haggard and dangerous crew.

"Harry." He returned, holding his hand out to the boy, who didn't hesitate to shake it. Harry continued to study the lad, wondering just where he fit into all of this. Apparently, his thoughts were projected on his forehead.

"I'm the cook aboard this fine ship," Lucas exclaimed proudly with a fond pat of the dark wood railing, "I make all the meals so if you don't want to find a fistful of salt in your stew, you best stay on my good side." Lucas teased with a quirk of his brow. Harry huffed and turned his head away so that the cheeky little bloke didn't catch the twitch in his lips.

"And I suppose you're a pirate too?" Harry retorted, playful but it was a real question that had been floating around in his head. Lucas pursed his lips thoughtfully, looking around at the rest of the crew, Harry looked as well.

"I wouldn't say we're pirates, exactly. I'd say we're more like 'Mercenaries of the Seas!' People hire us to do dangerous or unsavory jobs. We only do what we're hired to do, we don't murder and pillage for the sake of it. Most of the folks here either have a criminal record or ' _just don't look right,'_ you know? So finding regular work ain't really an option. We're sort of an odd family." Lucas mused, a fond expression on his young face as he watched one of the crew members hook an arm around the neck of another and yank him down playfully with a great belly laugh.

"That's Jeb," Lucas pointed to the man who had tried to touch Harry earlier. The bald bloke built like a mountain. "He's a bit crass at times and makes the worst jokes, but he's a good man. A growling bear on the outside, but his insides are all sweet and doughy. You'll see it in time. He's usually our captain. Jeb was the one that plucked me from the streets, nearly starved to my bones and with a papa who beat me within an inch of my life." There was a writhing thread of bitterness in his words, but Lucas didn't let the easy smile slip from his face. The blunt, forwardness of his words were disarming to say the least.

"Jeb didn't ask any questions, he just offered me a place to sleep and warm food for as long as I wanted it. It's the same way for most of us here. We were lost, aimless, or broken and Jeb came and offered us work, or friendship. He offered us the chance to not die like stray dogs in the streets." Lucas turned his gaze to the back end of the ship, where the King was manning the wheel and talking with one of his guards.

"This was a very different place before King Thomas took over. We may not be very fond of having him on our ship, but he saved a lot of people by deposing the last king." Lucas then looked at Harry, a brow quirked curiously. "I heard the King demanded you stay on board, any idea why?" He didn't sound suspicious or distrustful, but plainly intrigued.

"I can do magic." Was all Harry said. Lucas' head tilted to the side and he blinked.

"Most of us on board can do some magic. Having people who can move water comes in handy on those windless days."

Harry studied Lucas for a moment, but there wasn't much left to hide. If Lucas hadn't been there to see what Harry had done to Jeb earlier, then he would still eventually find out. Besides, he was beginning to like Lucas, he was a lively kid, and Harry would rather the first Lucas would see or hear of Harry's magic to not be of Harry nearly killing one of the crew members. Harry contemplated which spell to show Lucas. There were many to choose from, but only one that felt inconsequential and harmless enough, one that he wished to share.

"The kind of magic I do, is a little bit _different."_ Harry said with a secret smile before he turned his body towards Lucas, not wishing to draw the attention of the entire crew. He held out his hand with his palm facing skyward and in a little burst of blue light, wandlessly cast a very acute version of the _Avis_ charm. In the blink of an eye, there perched on his hand, was a little Blue Jay. Harry did not wish to use the bird to attack anyone, so it stood stationary on his hand, twitching its soft blue head this way and that as it took in its surroundings.

Looking up, Harry watched the dawning disbelief and wonder bleeding into Lucas' wide blue eyes. With a hesitant hand, Lucas reached out, perhaps to pet the creature's sky-colored plumage, but just before his fingertips could touch, the bird gave a soft trill and pushed itself off of Harry's hand, taking flight. The Blue Jay soared just over the heads of the oblivious crewmen, almost taunting as it glided within reach.

Lucas released a breathless laugh before launching himself after the bird. He weaved through the bustling crew and reached his hand high, leaping in order to chase those white-tipped tail feathers without any real intention to capture. Harry clamped his lips between his teeth in order to contain a chuckle when Lucas nearly ran overboard when the bird flew out over open waters, only stopped when Jeb had the sense to reach out and catch the boy by the collar of his dark brown shirt.

The bird took to flying through the top sails while the teenage boy struggled with his human-anchor, looking as though he was ready to start climbing his way up the main mast.

Not wishing to see Lucas scrambling up those endless rungs only to fall and break something, Harry called the Blue Jay back towards his hand. It immediately came fluttering down to perch comfortably on his finger. Harry's fingertips skimmed the soft little down feathers on its chest. Technically the bird wasn't real, just an advanced bit of transfiguration but it looked and behaved like any other living thing. The bird affectionately nipped at his fingers and it reminded him a bit of Hedwig. His beautiful snowy owl. Just another casualty in a needless war.

Lucas finally freed himself from Jeb's grip and ran back to Harry, nearly crashing into him if Harry had not moved quickly and caught the boys' arm to steady him.

" _How did you do that?!"_ Lucas gushed with excitement while Harry smiled softly at the eager boy. Instead of answering immediately, Harry lifted his hand over the railing of the ship and with a little lofting of his hand, the bird took flight once more, but the moment it lost contact with his hand, its visage gave a sharp twist into nothingness, leaving only empty air.

"Like I said, the magic I do is a little bit different."

* * *

It seemed that his little display had endeared him to Lucas in some way, as for the rest of the day the young boy took it upon himself to acquaint Harry with the ship and its inhabitants. Harry mostly stayed quiet, silently taking in everything that the rambunctious boy pointed out to him and nodding when need be. The crew ignored him right back, greeting Lucas brightly with smiles or friendly jabs, but either pretending Harry didn't exist or sending him scathing, distrustful looks.

Which Harry didn't mind. He wasn't looking for friends or allies, he was looking for a way off the ship and as far away from anyone who might know his face as possible. Lucas was . . . he was different. Harry wasn't certain why he followed him around, or why he cared whether or not the kid was afraid of him. Though, a small part of him suspected that Harry was drawn in by Lucas' youth and innocence, that this newfound protective side of him was latching onto Lucas. Drawn to that brightness and optimism that in his own world, had been trampled, killed, and razed to ashes. Lucas was just a kid, one who'd clearly had a tough go of it.

After a short tour of the ship and all of its inner machinations, Lucas led him to the place he spent the majority of his time, the kitchen. At the front of the ship, opposite the captain's quarters, were two rooms: a small and tightly-locked infirmary, which held the most expensive and valuable cargo on the ship—medicine—and next to it was the much larger 'dining hall' which was just a room with a few long tables where the men ate, communed, and escaped the harsh sun. At the back of the dining hall, was a smaller, ventilated kitchen.

"No one's allowed in when I'm not here. Those men might take a cutlass between the ribs for me, but they're also notorious food-thieves." Lucas confided with a sly smirk. Harry glanced around the kitchen curiously, it was cramped, but everything was clean and well-taken care of. Harry turned back just in time to catch the raw potato that had been tossed his way.

"If you give me a hand, I'll let you have seconds at dinner." The boy offered with a cheeky grin. Harry felt the corner of his mouth curl involuntarily and huffed out a faux-annoyed huff to cover it as he tossed the potato back.

" _Deal."_

Harry spent the majority of the day in the kitchen with Lucas. It didn't actually take that long to cook the meal, but the kitchen was Lucas' domain and where he stayed to avoid being put to more laborious work— _not that anyone would dare,_ according to the boy—and to stay out of the sun. He also confided in Harry that the one who cooked the food never went hungry, no matter how low supplies ran. Though, the more time Harry spent around the lad, the more convinced he was that the crew was just too soft on him to ever deny him anything.

Lucas was quite the chatter-box. He could go for hours, talking about nothing and everything all at once. He didn't pry into Harry's business—in fact, Harry hardly spoke a word—which was greatly appreciated. Harry liked to listen to the kid, to let his aimless ramblings fill the space with warmth and excitement.

Secretly, Harry wondered if this might be what it will be like when his own son or daughter comes into the world and grows up. His mind drifting to woeful fantasies of stirring a bubbling pot of savory supper while his raven-haired, bright-eyed child rambled on and on about their day. He imagines hearing whines and complaints about chores, or that Harry is too embarrassing when dancing around the house. He pictures what it will be like to finally have his child in front of him to love like nothing else before. He wants to watch them grow into a person with their own gifts and faults and still love them to the furthest star and back.

Harry gently wrapped those thoughts in silk—as a swell of emotion threatened to crash against his walls—and rested it on soft hazy clouds in the back of his mind to revisit when he was alone.

Together, he and Lucas cooked up a large bit of hearty stew, with meat and vegetables served with a good portion of fresh bread. Lucas explained to him that they weren't usually able to be so generous in their meals, but the presence of the King meant that they had been stocked to full capacity and would be renewing their stores every time they docked.

When the sun had set over the horizon and the lanterns had all been lit, Harry helped move the food from the kitchen—carrying the bread while Lucas got a surlier man to transport the heavy pot of stew—into the dining hall where quite a few of the ship's inhabitants were already waiting. As Harry set the bread on a short table perpendicular to the other tables, he was suddenly reminded of his fourth year at Hogwarts. The distrustful stares, the low murmurs passing from lips to ears.

This was why Harry had been trying not to get caught doing magic. They now saw him as dangerous, and if he wasn't careful, he could find himself tossed overboard at sea without anyone the wiser. The King's supposed interest in Harry might not be enough to outweigh the crew's fear.

One by one, men rose from their seats and approached for their portion of bread and stew. None of them thanked Harry when he handed them their cut of bread, but neither did they throw around profanities. He would take what he could get. Though, he could see Lucas frowning from the corner of his eye as he watched the proceedings.

Everyone else seemed to have received their food and were sitting down, talking away, when the final crew member stood and approached their table. A hush fell over the men as the low resonating foot falls sounded. The giant of a man stopped before their table, gaze focused solely on Harry. Such a glare would put his old potions professor to shame. He held the man's gaze unflinchingly, until his eyes inevitably drifted down to the painful collar of bruises that painted Jeb's thick neck. There were parts of his skin that the rope had torn and rubbed raw during his struggle.

Harry didn't regret doing it.

It may have been an overreaction to a horrid joke, but Harry did not like to be touched—especially by someone he didn't know. He didn't regret hurting the man, and that was why he would never apologize for it. . .

 _However._

Every moment that those bruises lingered, everyone was reminded of just what Harry could do. They would only see him as a monster. With an internal sigh, Harry's small hand lifted and reached out towards Jeb's throat.

The reaction was immediate, Jeb jerked back as if Harry was holding a bloody knife in his hand— _might as well be—_ and Harry paused but didn't drop his hand.

"Wh—"

" _Please_." Harry interrupted, not a plead but an _offer_. The room seemed to hold their breath as Jeb stared hard at him, scrutinizing while Harry held his arm aloft, refusing to drop it until he got a response. The silence had passed far beyond any dregs of 'comfortable' and was sinking deeper and deeper into 'tense' as the moments dragged on.

Finally, after what felt like a _spitefully_ long stretch of time, Jeb still had confusion and apprehension written all along the lines of his face, but he leaned in minutely. Harry felt a flicker of relief in his gut. He didn't know how much this would help— _if at all—_ but perhaps it would lower his chances of being cast overboard.

His fingertips made contact with the mottled skin of Jeb's throat, he could practically _feel_ the tension coursing through Jeb like an electric current. With a warmth that crawled up his arm like heated, overflowing syrup, Harry's magic rose to the point of contact and was immediately soaked up like a sponge. Careful not to release a slew of pent-up magic on the jumpy man, Harry only let it spread superficially. The dark blues and purples began fading before their eyes with a small pulse of magic. Harry heard Jeb's stuttered intake of breath, but ignored it as he focused. Jeb stared in confusion and wonderment at his arms as the marks lightened and evaporated along with the subtle ache that had been there since their conception.

The very second that the bruises and rope burns were gone, Harry snatched his hand back and dropped his gaze to the table where he picked his borrowed knife back up and sawed through the loaf. Exactly even with all the other portions he'd given, Harry took the bread and held it out towards Jeb, his expression blank and unreadable.

After a few extended beats of silence, Jeb took the bread without a word and then stepped to the side to receive his stew. From the edges of his vision, Harry caught the beginnings of a smile Lucas was fighting— _and failing—_ to hide.

Lucas was preparing two more bowls—for themselves, assumedly—when six more men entered the dining hall and immediately drew everyone's attention to themselves. The five guards in their pale uniforms loosely surrounded their king, looking calm but alert as they approached their table. Harry's eyes were drawn to Tom like a magnet and something indescribable bloomed in his lungs. Harry hadn't encountered Tom since the man had left him in his quarters, after having promised them to Harry for the night.

Bathed in the soft glow of the lantern light, having abandoned his stiff tailored silk coat for some looser dark blue shirt and fit black trousers, with unspoken words leaden on his tongue and uncertainty in his eyes. Before him stood, not a King, but _just a_ _man._ Humbled before Harry. Harry, who in many ways was a lover, but a stranger in that he likely didn't even know Harry's name. The thought struck Harry from his haze and made him blink and look away.

Harry picked up his bread knife but suddenly stopped when he heard the scrape of metal sliding from its sheath and looked up to find one of the guards had taken a half-step forward and had started to draw his sword, only stopped by the arm Tom had immediately put up between them with a fierce look sent the other man's way. The tension in the air was nearly suffocating as the guard refused to back down in his miss-guided attempt to protect his King, despite the look he was getting from the very same man he wished to protect.

It was not a guard Harry had met before, an older man with bone-white hair pulled back into a neat braid and venom dripping from his cold overcast eyes. Harry held the man's violent gaze, not breaking it for a moment as he slowly grabbed a loaf of bread and began to cut several more even portions for the King and his men. No one moved as he cut, and when he was done, Harry set the knife down perhaps a little too aggressively. It was only when the blade was no longer in his grip that the man finally sheathed his blade.

 _They really believed he would attack Tom with a blasted bread knife._

Huffing indignantly under his breath, Harry grabbed the bread and held it out to the men, if nothing else, then to get them to leave sooner. Tom took the bread from his hand gently, the barest brush of fingertips against his knuckles as Tom's larger hands retreated.

"Thank you, Harry." Harry looked up at that, unsure how to proceed with the use of his name, nor the humility strung through Tom's words like a sigh. All he _could_ do was give a shallow dip of his head in acknowledgement and wait for the men to take their bread from Tom and move on to a silent Lucas as he gave them the rest of their meal.

Tom and his men took their seats at the end of a table, but even when they sat and began to eat, the previous hum of conversation from before did not fully resume. Witnessing for himself how uncomfortable the crew seemed to be with sharing a meal with the King of Nandera, Harry wondered what on earth had led Tom to choosing to sail with this group of mercenaries and criminals instead of his own soldiers and naval officers. _Surely,_ he had some sort of naval force, right? _Just what in the name of Morgana was Tom planning to do?_

Harry continued to think about it as he and Lucas took their own generous portions of food and found a seat amongst the crew. Eventually, his curiosity got the better of him, and Harry asked Lucas.

"I don't know all the nits and bits," Lucas started with a non-committal shrug, "But from I've heard from the others, we're escorting King Thomas and his Knights to the Southern Isle off the coast of _Tsrilay_. Some folks call it the ' _Isle of the Damned.'_ The island is mostly jungle, but it does have a port city, _Corrfédo._ Which is my best guess at why we're going there. Corrfédo happens to be the number one criminal capital of the world, home to all those dark and depraved." Lucas spoke as though he were telling some suspenseful tale and not talking about a real place that they were going to.

"The place is considered lawless, since it is both governed and policed by 'criminals.' It's also one of the most diverse cities you will ever come across, with all kinds of species and creatures and humans. Most stay far away from such a place, because if one thing can be said about Corrfédo, it's that it is immensely dangerous. I've only been there once myself, and that was only because we had to retrieve something for a client from there. I hardly stepped off the ship." Harry absorbed the information with a slight frown between his brows. Hopefully they would be docking someplace else first before they reached this Corrfédo, so Harry could slip away before getting entangled in whatever dangerous venture this mission is turning out to be.

"And this ' _Pirate King'_ I've heard about?" Harry asked tentatively, hoping that what he had overheard from the guards that night at the inn was just as nonsensical as it had sounded. Lucas snorted impetuously.

" _What a ridiculous name!_ That's something you'll only hear the public call him, but us folk? We refer to him as _The_ _Cardinal._ Ain't a man or woman alive that has sailed these seas and not heard of the Cardinal. That man has more tales and legends than he can count, sailed every sea, fought in wars and battles both on land and not, claimed untold riches and gained the respect of every man, woman, and child born with the sea in their hearts. He brought order to the chaotic society of criminals and vagrants. You could say he's the _'King'_ of Corrfédo, but his influence over the people who live there will never be recognized by the mainland. So, the Isle of the Damned remains a lawless place in the eyes of most." Lucas leaned in and glanced over to the other side of the room where the King sat.

"Though, if I were a King myself, having the Cardinal on my side would be incredibly smart. Pirates of all kinds and patronage will follow the Cardinal wherever he goes."

Harry considered Lucas' words for the rest of his meal, wondering why exactly Tom needed the favor of a bunch of pirates and criminals. Secretly gathering forces and outside help, could this be the first signs of an impending war? If so, then it truly might be best that Harry get as far from Nandera as possible. A nation at war was not a suitable place to raise a child.

When they finished eating and brought the dishes to the kitchen to clean, it thankfully didn't take too long to get everything washed and put away for the night. Afterward, Lucas graciously offered Harry the free bed below his own. Harry thanked him but admitted to having been given the 'captain's bed for the night. Lucas blinked and sent Harry fearful look. It took only a moment for Harry to catch onto the path of Lucas' thoughts. Harry quickly assured the young boy that it was not as he thought, he would not be _sharing_ the bed with the King. The blonde still insisted that he sleep below deck with the crew, Harry would admit only to himself that he was a bit endeared by the boy's concern for him.

Harry did his best to assuage his worries by promising Lucas that it was only for one night, and then he would join him below deck. In a rare show of cheekiness, Harry confided that— _as a convicted criminal—_ it was his moral duty to put the King out of bed for a night. Unfortunately, it did nothing to convince Lucas that Harry would be safe.

Harry heaved a sigh and ran an exasperated hand through his onyx curls. Without much thought, as his fatigue was fast consuming what remained of his caution and forethought, Harry blurted out the first solution that came to mind.

"If you do not trust my words, then just stay with me." He gave a half-hearted gesture towards the captain's quarters just several paces away. They were both quite small in stature and the bed in there was more than big enough for the two of them. Besides, if Harry was taking only one night to enjoy the luxury of the lodgings, then he might as well use the rare opportunity to share it with the candid boy he had befriended in such a short amount of time.

Lucas blinked once, twice, considering Harry's suggestion. It didn't take long, however. With a determined nod, Lucas agreed. He may not know much about the quiet fellow who had unexpectedly joined their party at the last minute, but he liked Harry. There was something serenely calm about Harry, a fluidity to his movements and in what little he spoke, it was just so . . . captivating. Harry coveted his secrets and certainly kept them close to belt, but Lucas got the feeling that Harry was a good person under it all. He'd heard about what had happened earlier with Jeb, and while what exactly Harry can do with his strange powers is still a bit up in the air, the fact that he had healed Jeb's bruises when he certainly didn't have to, had to say _something_ about his character.

Harry offered the barest smile and led Lucas towards their temporary room for the night. As expected, it was empty when they entered, though the lanterns inside had been lit at some point to cast warm light throughout the room. Once inside, Harry closed the door and made sure to put up strong wards around the room that would prevent anyone from getting in, but not them from getting out—in case Lucas awoke before him in the morning or got up during the night and had to leave for whatever reason.

The younger seemed to eventually believe what Harry had told him about them not getting any unwanted visitors and finally allowed himself to be excited to be able to spend the night in such a comfortable bed— _which apparently hadn't belonged to Jeb at all, the former captain's bed having been replaced with something slightly more befitting a King._

The two teen boys prepared for bed and snuffed out the lanterns. The bed itself turned out to be even comfier than it had looked. Warm and soft against the harsh winter winds beyond the vessel. They slipped under the covers and Harry's half-lidded gaze traced the flickering wisps of light dancing across the ceiling as he waited for sleep, coming from large window at the back of the room that looked out on waters painted in moonlight. Just as he was passing the point-of-no-return for unconsciousness, he felt warm fingers curl around his pinky under the blankets.

* * *

 _There was a pressure in his ears, the low thrums and clicks of bass humming in his skull. A muffled wall of sounds that bled together and weren't quite decipherable from each other. Like he was trying to listen to something while underwater. Whatever it was, it seemed he was getting closer to it as it was steadily growing louder and louder. And when it was so loud he could feel it resonating in his bones like the hollowed pipes of an organ, there was a moment of stillness before it_ _ **popped.**_

 _With the sound of a vacuum stealing all the air from a room, the world around Harry burst into a cacophony of sound. It was deafening and so sudden that his heart lurched painfully in his chest and frantically battered his ribs like the thundering hooves of a horse fleeing in fear._

 _His eyes shot open and were coated with a cloud of smoke and dust as blinding flashes of spells struck the ancient stone around him and soft vulnerable bodies alike. The crumbling castle, explosions, and screams consumed Harry as he stumbled forward into the middle of the ongoing battle._

No. . .

 _His chest clenched so hard it was as though it was trying its damnedest to crush his heart. All around him, witches and wizards who had never even tasted adulthood were fighting for their lives and being cut down relentlessly. The rubble piled and strewn everywhere was mixed with clotting scarlet and the broken limp bodies still donning their school uniforms._

 _Harry whirled around on his feet just to tear his eyes away from the sight, but when he turned, his eyes connected with desperate gaze of a girl who looked no older than thirteen just as a black pillar of smoke descended on her, grabbed the battered girl around her waist before shooting back up sixty feet in the air and letting go. . ._

 _Harry would never forget the sound of her skull meeting the stone floor. Hard. Heavy. Unforgiving._ _ **Wet.**_

 _His chest constricted again and the air contracted in his lungs, refusing to let him suck in a full breath. And then with another turn, Harry's wand raised automatically to block the_ bombarda _sent at his head, and he was sucked into a fight to the death with a Dark wizard he'd never met. All too soon, Harry had backed the man into a corner and with a quick_ reducto _Harry's chalky flesh was flecked with hot points of crimson. He didn't stop._

 _He was running before he even realized his feet could move, throwing his whole body into every arch and jab of his wand as he cut people down. Each time a spell left his wand, he seemed to shrink inside the shell of his body, pulling tighter in on himself like an imploding star on the brink of death. His vision pulsed as his lungs refused to work, hot stabs of agony slipping between his ribs, and his mind was tripping over itself in fear and the horrid adrenaline of battle._

 _The world was squeezing in tighter. He fell anyone who passed into the line of his wand until he wasn't even sure who was crumpling to the ground before him. He couldn't tell whether their robes were all black or if somewhere hidden between the folds was a certain colored insignia. He just frantically cast, never fast enough._

 _The very shadows around him seemed to solidify and step forward as one, surrounding him. The flashes leaving the tip of his wand turned verdant and as frigidly lethal as his pale green gaze. His vision pulsed black for a moment and his crumpled to his knees with a cry. The shadows moved closer until they seemed a hundred feet tall and Harry curled down until his forehead met cool stone._

 _'_ _Go away . . . go away. . ._ GOAWAY _!'_

 _He closed his eyes, feeling as though dozens of wands were aimed as his back. Hogwarts has fallen. Harry failed. He turned himself into a monster but it wasn't enough._

 _Harry breathed out and disrupted a bit of dust._

 _He heard the sizzling of a spell._

* * *

Harry awoke to the feeling of a train having crashed into his chest. The air wheezed out of his lungs and he launched himself from the bed, hardly noticing when his knees made bruising contact with the floor. He scrambled to the side, eyes impossibly wide and entire frame quaking violently. There was a horrid sound of choking and wheezing air and it took far too long for the teen to recognize that it was _him_ that was making such distressed noises. His numb body not processing the avid burning in his chest as his system refused to accept any air in the midst of such debilitating panic.

His mind was stuttering in his head and his ears rang with the echo of battle. He felt like the dark held hundreds of wands pointed right at his vulnerable form, the stark black surrounding him were thick swaths of fabric wrapping around his limbs and forcing its way into his mouth and down his throat to suffocate him, and only one thought seemed to make it through the chaos of his mind.

 _Escape._

Harry's weak, gasping form stumbled unsteadily to his feet and he ran in the direction of the door. In his terror, Harry didn't hear the shifting of blankets or the sleepy call of ' _Harry?'_ as he crashed through the pitch-black room and fumbled for the door. Harry burst forth from the room and nearly fell as he dragged in a painful breath that hardly reached his lungs. His heart pounded erratically and he staggered his way over to the side of the ship until he could grip the railing. The harsh cool air of the winter's night scraped along his exposed skin and bit at his bare feet, but he didn't care.

His sense was a fleeting creature that was slow to coax back. It felt as though minutes had ticked by like sand between his fingers as he fought to understand the situation and regain control over his body. As Harry was just beginning to realize that he was not—in fact—in the midst of battle, he became vaguely aware of the cold wetness staining his cheeks, the harsh breaths leaving his throat in phantom-sobs, and the tight arms wrapped around him that were the sole thing keeping his trembling form up.

As soon Harry realized that he wasn't alone and that Lucas was whispering soothing but tremulous words into his ear, he pulled in the first _real_ breath he'd had since before his night terror. For, as the minutes continued to tick by and his body was slow to settle, he came to the conclusion that _that_ was what had happened. Harry had a night terror. Any strength he may have had to carry himself out onto the deck left him as his breathing started to regulate again and his heart no longer felt like it was being crushed.

They stood there, alone on the darkened deck, until they were both shivering from the cold and Harry had mostly come down from his panic.

Harry leaned more of his weight on the boy who had followed him into the cold night and allowed the worried teen to finally guide them back around in the direction of the captain's quarters. Though his vision still continued to pulse, it was not blurry enough for him to miss the figure frozen half-way down the steps. His eyes met the depths of the darkest blue, but he could do no more than stare at Tom as he finally reached the door and was led carefully into the darkened room.

Tom must have seen. He must have been at the helm when Harry ran out onto the deck, bearing his demons on his flesh and in his tear-filled eyes. And from where he was frozen on the steps, he must have rushed to approach Harry but was cut off by the appearance of Lucas.

A matter to worry over in the light of day, where dust and blood were only distant echo's. Lucas half-carried Harry to bed, supporting his weight but holding him as if he were made of tissue-paper. Harry caught a glimpse of the boy's face as he was helped back into the still-warm bed. Lucas' expression was painted with concern and uncertainty. A distant part of his exhausted mind felt guilty for the boy who was so very far out of his depth.

Lucas followed Harry under the covers and didn't hesitate a moment to close the distance and wrap a protective arm around Harry's form. In the darkness, Harry wondered at the easy generosity— _gentility_ —of the boy before him. Still a child himself, yet valiantly shielding Harry from the dark creatures living within his own mind. Harry closed his eyes and shifted closer so that they were sharing the same pillow, the same breath. As exhaustion claimed his body once more, the raven silently hoped that he would one day be able to instill the same kindness in his child.


End file.
